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Page  16. 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS. 


BY 

JULIANA  HORATIA  EWING, 

AUTHOR  OF  "  SIX  TO  SIXTEEN." 


ILLUSTRATED. 


NEW  YORK 

AMERICAN  PUBLISHERS  CORPORATION 

310-318  Sixth  Avenue 


DEDICATED 

TO  MY  DEAR  SISTER 
MARGARET. 


v 


J.H.  E. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

PAGE 
THE  WINDMILLER'S  WIFE.— STRANGERS.— TEN  SHILLINGS  A  WEEK.— 

THE  LITTLE  JAN 1 

CHAPTER  II. 

THE  MILLER'S  CALCULATIONS.— HIS  HOPES  AND  FEARS.— THE  NURSE- 
BOY.— CALM 10 

CHAPTER  III. 

THE  WINDMILLER'S  WORDS  COME  TRUE.— THE  RED  SHAWL.— IN  THE 
CLOUDS.— NURSING  V.  PIG-MINDING.— THE  ROUND-HOUSE.— THE 
MILLER'S  THUMB 14 

CHAPTER  IV. 

BLACK  AS  SLANS— VAIR  AND  VOOLISH.— THE  MILLER  AND  HIS  MAN 19 

CHAPTER  V. 

THE  POCKET-BOOK  AND  THE  FAMILY  BIBLE.— FIVE  POUNDS' REWARD..         23 

CHAPTER  VI. 

GEORGE  GOES  COURTING.— GEORGE  AS  AN  ENEMY.— GEORGE  AS  A 
FRIEND.— ABEL  PLAYS  SCHOOLMASTER.— THE  LOVE-LETTER.— 
MOERDYK.— THE  MILLER-MOTH.— AN  ANCIENT  DITTY 27 

CHAPTER  VH. 

ABEL  GOES  TO  SCHOOL  AGAIN.— DAME  DATCHETT.— A  COLUMN  OF 
SPELLING.— ABEL  PLAYS  MOOCHER.— THE  MILLER'S  MAN  CANNOT 
MAKE  UP  HIS  MIND 35 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

VISITORS  AT  THE  MILL.— A  WIND  MILLER  OF  THE  THIRD  GENERATION. 
—CURE  FOR  WHOOPING-COUGH.— MISS  AMABEL,  ADELINE  AM- 
MABY  — DOCTORS  DISAGREE 39 

CHAPTER  IX. 

GENTRY  BORN.— LEARNING  LOST.— JAN'S  BEDFELLOW.— AMABEL 45 

CHAPTER  X. 

ABEL  AT  HOME.— JAN  OBJECTS  TO  THE  MILLER'S  MAN.— THE  ALPHABET. 

—THE  CHEAP  JACK.— "  PITCHERS  " 47 

CHAPTER  XI. 

SCARECROWS  AND  MEN.— JAN  REFUSES  TO  "MAKE  GEARGE."— UN- 
CANNY ,— "  JANS'S  OFF,"— THE.  MOON  AND  THE  CROUPS.,. ,,,.,„„,,.,„        $j 


vl.  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  WHITE  HORSE.— COMROGUES.— MOERDYK.—GEORGE  CONFIDES  IN 

THE  CHEAP  JACK.— WITH  RESERVATION 60 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

GEORGE  AS  A  MONEYED  MAN.— SAL.— THE  "  WHITE  HORSE."— THE  WED- 
DING.—THE  WINDMILLER'S  WIFE  FORGETS,  AND  REMEMBERS  TOO 
LATE 65 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

SUBLUNARY  ART.— JAN  GOES  TO  SCHOOL.— DAME  DATCHETT  AT  HOME. 

—JAN'S  FIRST  SCHOOL  SCRAPE.— JAN  DEFENDS  HIMSELF 70 

CHAPTER  XV. 

WILLUM  GIVES  JAN  SOME  ADVICE.— THE  CLOCK  FACE.— THE  HORNET  AND 
THE  DAME.— JAN  DRAWS  PIGS.— JAN  AND  HIS  PATRONS.— KITTY 
CHCTER.— THE  FIGHT  .—MASTER  CHUTER'S  PREDICTION »         74 

CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE  MOP.— THE  SHOP.— WHAT  THE  CHEAP  JACK'S  WIFE  HAD  TO  TELL.— 

WHAT  GEORGE  WITHHELD 84 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE  MILLER'S  MAN  AT  THE  MOP.— A  LIVELY  COMPANION.— SAL  LOSES 
HE  R  PURSE.— THElRECRUITING  SERGEANT.— THE  POCKET-BOOK  TWICE 
STOLEN.— GEORGE  IN  THE  KING'S  ARMS.— GEORGE  IN  THE  KING'S 
SERVICE.— THE  LETTER  CHANGES  HANDS,  BUT  KEEPS  ITS  SECRET 90 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 

MIDSUMMER  HOLIDAYS.— CHILD  FANCIES.--JAN  AND  THE  PIG-MINDER.— 

MASTER  SALTER  AT  HOME.— JAN  HIRES  HIMSELF  OUT 97 

CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE  BLUE  COAT.— PIG-MINDING  AND  TREE-STUDYING.— LEAF-PAINTINGS. 

—A  STRANGER.— MASTER  SWIFT  IS  DISAPPOINTED 102 

CHAPTER  XX. 

SQUIRE  AMMABY  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER.— THE  CHEAP  JACK  DOES  BUSINESS 

ONCE  MORE.— THE  WHITE   HORSE  CHANGES  MASTERS 110 

CHAPTER  XXI. 

MASTER  SWIFT  AT  HOME.— RUFUS.—  THE  EX-PIG-MINDEE.— JAN  AND  THE 

SCHOOLMASTER 115 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE     PARISH     CHURCH.— REMBRANDT.— THE      SNOW     SCENE.— MASTER 

SWIFT'S  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 120 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 

THE  WHITE    HORSE    IN  CLOVER.— AMABEL    AND    HER    GUARDIANS.— 

AMABEL  IN  THE  WOOD.— BOGY 128 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE    PAINT-BOX.— MASTER    LINSEED'S    SHOP.— THE  NEW  SIGN-BOARD. — 

MASTER  SWIFT  AS  WILL  SCARLET „„ ....,., ..„.„,,(„      134 


CONTENTS.  vii. 

CHAPTEE  XXV. 

SANITARY  INSPECTORS.— THE  PESTILENCE.— THE  PARSON.— THE  DOCTOR. 
—  THE  SQDIRE  AND  THE  SCHOOLMASTER.— DESOLATION  AT  THE 
WINDMILL.— THE  SECOND  ADVENT 139 

CHAPTER  XXVI. 

THE  BEASTS  OF  THE  TILLAGE.— ABEL  SICKENS.— THE  GOOD  SHEPHERD. — 
RUFUS  PLATS  THE  PHILANTHROPIST.— MASTER  SWIFT  SEES  THE  SUN 
RISE.— THE  DEATH  OF  THE  RIGHTEOUS 145 

CHAPTER  XXVn. 

JAN  HAS  THE  FEVER.— CONTALESCENCE  IN  MASTER  SWIFT'S  COTTAGE.— 

THE  SQUIRE  ON  DEMORALIZATION 150 

CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

MR.  FORD'S    CLIENT.— THE    HISTORY  OF  JAN'S  FATHER.— AMABEL  AND 

BOGY  THE  SECOND 154 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 

JAN  FULFILS  ABEL'S  CHARGE.— SON  OF  THE  MILL.— THE  LARGE- 
MOUTHED  WOMAN 164 

CHAPTER  XXX. 

JAN'S   PROSPECTS,  AND    MASTER  SWIFT'S  PLANS.— TEA  AND  MILTON.— 

NEW  PARENTS.— PARTING  WITH  RUFUS.— JAN  IS  KIDNAPPED 169 

CHAPTER  XXXI. 

SCREEVING— AN  OLD  SONG.— MR.  FORD'S  CLIENT.— THE  PENNY  GAFF. 

—JAN  RUNS  AWAY .- 175 

CHAPTER  XXXII. 

THE   BAKER.— ON  AND    ON.— THE    CHURCH    BELL.— A   DIGRESSION.— A 

FAMILIAR  HYMN.— THE  BOYS'  HOME 179 

CHAPTER  XXXHI. 

THE  BUSINESS  MAN  AND  THE  PAINTER.— PICTURES  AND  POT  BOILERS.— 

CIMABUE  AND  GIOTTO.— THE  SALMON-COLORED  OMNIBUS 185 

CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

A  CHOICE  OFTOCATIONS—  RECREATION  HOUR.— THE  BOW-LEGGED  BOY. 

—DRAWING  BY  HEART.— GIOTTO 188 

CHAPTER  XXXV. 

"WITHOUT     CHARACTER  ?  "—THE    WIDOW.— THE    BOW-LEGGED    BOY 

TAKES  SERTICE.— STUDIOS  AND  PAINTERS 191 

CHAPTER  XXXVI. 
THE  MILLER'S  LETTER.— A  NEW  POT  BOILER  SOLD 195 

CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

SUNSHINE  AFTER  STORM 199 

CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

A  PAINTER'S    EDUCATION— MASTER    CHUTER'S    PORT.— A    FAREWELL 

FEAST.— THE  SLEEP  OF  THE  JUST  201 


viii.  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

GEORGE  AGAIN.— THE  PAINTER'S  ADVICE.—"  HOME-BREWED"  AT  THE 

HEART  OF  OAK.— JAN  CHANGES  THE  PAINTER'S  MIND 20? 

CHAPTER  XL. 

D'ARCT  SEES  BOGY  .—THE  ACADEMY.— THE  PAINTER'S  PICTURE 211 

CHAPTER  XLI. 

THE    DETECTIVE.— THE    "  JOOK."— JAN    STANDS    BT    HIS    MOTHER'S 

GRAVE.— HIS  AFTER  HISTORY 213 

CHAPTER  XLH. 
CONCLUSION „     216 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 


CHAPTER  I. 

TH6   "WINDMILL ER'S    WIFE STRANGERS TEN     SHILLINGS 

A   WEEK THE    LITTLE   JAN. 

Storm  without  and  within  ! 

So  the  windmiller  might  have  said,  if  he  had  been  in  the 
habit  of  putting  his  thoughts  into  an  epigrammatic  form,  as 
a  groan  from  his  wife  and  a  growl  of  thunder  broke  simul- 
taneously upon  his  ear,  whilst  the  rain  fell  scarcely  faster 
than  her  tears. 

It  was  far  from  mending  matters  that  both  storms  were 
equally  unexpected.  For  eight  full  years  the  miller's  wife 
had  been  the  meekest  of  women.  If  there  was  a  firm  (and 
yet,  as  he  flattered  himself,  a  just)  husband  in  all  the  dreary 
straggling  district,  the  miller  was  that  man.  And  he  always 
did  justice  to  his  wife's  good  qualities,— at  least  to  her  good 
quality  of  submission,— and  would,  till  lately,  have  upheld 
her  before  any  one  as  a  model  of  domestic  obedience.  From 
the  day  when  he  brought  home  his  bride,  tall,  pretty,  and 
perpetually  smiling,  to  the  tall  old  mill  and  the  ugly  old 
mother  who  never  smiled  at  all,  there  had  been  but  o°ne  will 
m  the  household.  At  any  rate,  after  the  old  woman's  death. 
For  during  her  lifetime  her  stern  son  paid  her  such  deference 
that  it  was  a  moot  point,  perhaps,  which  of  them  really 
ruled.  ^  Between  them,  however,  the  young  wife  was  moulded 
to  a  nicety,  and  her  voice  gained  no  more  weight  in  the 
counsels  of  the  windmill  when  the  harsh  tones  of  the  mother- 
in-law  were  silenced  for  ever. 

_  The  miller  was  one  of  those  good  souls  who  live  by  the 
light  of  a  few  small  shrewdities  (often  proverbial),  and  pique 
themselves  on  sticking  to  them  to  such  a  point,  as'if  it  were 


a  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

the  greater  virtue  to  abide  by  a  narrow  rule  the  less  it  ap. 
plied.  The  kernel  of  his  domestic  theory  was,  "  Never  yield, 
and  you  never  will  have  to,"  and  to  this  he  was  proud  of 
having  stuck  against  all  temptations  from  a  real,  though  hard, 
affection  for  his  own ;  and  now,  after  working  so  smoothly 
for  eight  years,  had  it  come  to  this? 

The  miller  scratched  his  head,  and  looked  at  his  wife, 
almost  with  amazement.  She  moaned,  though  he  bade  her 
be  silent ;  she  wept,  in  spite  of  words  which  had  hitherto 
been  an  effectual  styptic  to  her  tears ;  and  she  met  the  com- 
monplaces of  his  common  sense  with  such  wild,  miserable 
laughter,  that  he  shuddered  as  he  heard  her. 

Weakness  in  human  beings  is  like  the  strength  of  beasts, 
a  power  of  which  fortunately  they  are  not  always  conscious. 
Unless  positively  brutal,  you  cannot  well  beat  a  sickly 
woman  for  wailing  and  weeping ;  and  if  she  will  not  cease 
for  any  lesser  consideration,  there  seems  nothing  for  an  un- 
bending husband  to  do  but  to  leave  her  to  herself. 

This  the  miller  had  to  do,  anyhow.  For  he  could  only 
spare  a  moment's  attention  to  her  now  and  then,  since  the 
mill  required  all  his  care. 

In  a  coat  and  hat  of  painted  canvas,  he  had  been  in  and 
out  ever  since  the  storm  began  ;  now  directing  the  two  men 
who  were  working  within,  now  struggling  along  the  stage 
that  ran  out-side  the  windmill,  at  no  small  risk  of  being  fairly 
blown  away. 

He  had  reefed  the  sails  twice  already  in  the  teeth  of  the 
blinding  rain.  But  he  did  well  to  be  careful.  For  it  was 
in  such  a  storm  as  this,  five  years  ago  "  come  Michaelmas," 
that  the  worst  of  windmill  calamities  had  befallen  him, — 
the  sails  had  been  torn  off  his  mill  and  dashed  into  a  hun- 
dred fragments  upon  the  ground.  And  such  a  mishap  to  a 
seventy  feet  tower  mill  means — as  windmillers  well  know — 
not  only  a  stoppage  of  trade,  but  an  expense  of  two  hundred 
pounds  for  the  new  sails. 

Many  a  sack  of  grist,  which  should  have  come  to  him,  had 
gone  down  to  the  watermill  in  the  valley  before  the  new  sails 
were  at  work  ;  and  the  huge  debt  incurred  to  pay  for  them 
was  not  fairly  wiped  out  yet.  The  catastrophe  had  kept  the 
windmiller  a  poor  man  for  five  years,  and  it  gave  him  a  ner- 
Tous  dread  of  storms. 


% 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  3 

And  talking  of  storms,  here  was  another  unreasonable 
thing.  The  morning  sky  had  been  (like  the  miller's  wedded 
life)  without  a  cloud.  The  day  had  been  sultry,  for  the  time 
of  the  year  unseasonably  so.  And,  just  when  the  miller  most 
grudged  an  idle  day,  when  times  were  hard,  when  he  was  in 
debt, — for  some  small  matters,  as  well  as  the  sail  business — 
and  when,  for  the  first  time  in  bis  life,  he  felt  almost  afraid 
of  his  own  hearthstone,  and  would  fain  have  been  busy  at 
his  trade,  not  a  breath  of  wind  had  there  been  to  turn  the 
sails  of  the  mill.  Not  a  waft  to  cool  his  perplexed  forehead, 
not  breeze  enough  to  stir  the  short  grass  that  glared  for 
miles  over  country  flat  enough  to  mock  him  with  the  fullest 
possible  view  of  the  cloudless  sky.  Then  towards  evening, 
a  few  gray  flecks  had  stolen  up  from  the  horizon  like  thieves 
in  the  dusk,  and  a  mighty  host  of  clouds  had  followed  them ; 
and  when  the  wind  did  come,  it  came  in  no  moderate  meas- 
ure, but  brought  this  awful  storm  upon  its  wings,  which  now 
raged  as  if  all  the  power  of  mischief  had  got  loose,  and 
were  bent  on  turning  everything  topsy-turvey  indoors  and 
out. 

What  made  the  winds  and  clouds  so  perverse,  the  clerk 
of  the  weather  best  knows ;  but  there  was  a  reason  for  the 
unreasonableness  of  the  windmiller's  wife.   ' 

She  had  lost  her  child,  her  youngest  born,  and  therefore, 
at  present,  her  best  beloved.  This  girl-babe  was  the  sixth 
of  the  windmiller  and  his  wife's  children,  the  last  that  God 
gave  them,  and  the  first  that  it  had  pleased  Him  to  take 
away. 

The  mother  had  been  weak  herself  at  the  time  that  the 
baby  fell  ill,  and  unusually  ill-fitted  to  bear  a  heavy  blow. 
Then  her  watchful  eyes  had  seen  symptoms  of  ailing  in  the 
child  long  before  the  windmiller's  good  sense  would  allow  a 
fuss  to  be  made,  and  expense  to  be  incurred  about  a  little 
peevishness  up  or  down.  And  it  was  some  words  muttered 
by  the  doctor  when  he  did  come,  about  not  having  been 
sent  for  soon  enough,  which  were  now  doing  as  much  as  any 
thing  to  drive  the  poor  woman  frantic.  They  struck  a  blow, 
too,  at  her  blind  belief  in  the  miller's  invariable  wisdom. 
If  he  had  but  listened  to  her  in  this  matter,  were  it  only  for 
love's  sake  !  There  was  something,  she  thought,  in  what  that 
woman  had  said  who  came  to  help  her  with  the  last  offices. 


4  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

—the  miller  discouraged  "  neighbors,"  but  this  was  a  mat- 
ter of  decency, — that  it  was  as  foolish  for  a  man  to  have  the 
say  over  babies  and  housework  as  it  would  be  for  his  wife  to 
want  her  word  in  the  workshop  or  the  mill. 

Perhaps  a  state  of  subjection  for  grown-up  people  does 
not  tend  to  make  them  reasonable,  especially  in  their  indig- 
nations. The  windmiller's  wife  dared  not,  for  her  life,  have 
told  him  in  so  many  words  that  she  thought  it  would  be  for 
their  joint  benefit  if  he  would  give  a  little  more  considera- 
tion to  her  wishes  and  opinions  ;  but  from  this  suppressed 
idea  came  many  sharp  and  peevish  words  at  this  time,  which, 
apart  from  their  true  source,  were  quite  as  unreasonable  and 
perverse  as  the  miller  held  them  to  be.  Nor  is  being  com- 
pletely under  the  control  of  another,  self-control.  It  may  be 
doubted  if  it  can  even  do  much  to  teach  it.  The  thread  of 
her  passive  condition  having  been,  for  the  time,  broken  by 
grief,  the  bereaved  mother  moaned  and  wailed,  and  rocked 
herself,  and  beat  her  breast,  and  turned  fiercely  upon  all  in- 
terference, like  some  poor  beast  in  anguish. 

She  had  clung  to  her  children  with  an  almost  morbid  ten- 
derness, in  proportion  as  she  found  her  worthy  husband  stern 
and  cold.  A  hard  husband  sometimes  makes  a  soft  mother, 
and  it  is  perhaps  upon  the  baby  of  the  family  that  her  re- 
pressed affections  outpoured  themselves  most  fully.  It  wras 
so  in  this  case,  at  any  rate.  And  the  little  one  had  that  un- 
earthly beauty  which  is  seen,  or  imagined,  about  children 
who  die  young.  And  the  poor  woman  had  suffered  and 
striven  so  for  it,  to  have  it  and  to  keep  it.  The  more  criti- 
cal grew  its  illness,  the  intenser  grew  her  strength  and  reso- 
lution by  watchfulness,  by  every  means  her  instinct  and  ex- 
perience could  suggest,  to  fight  and  win  the  battle  against 
death-  And  when  all  was  vain,  the  maddening  thought  tor- 
tured her  that  it  might  have  been  saved. 

The  miller  had  made  a  mistake,  and  it  was  a  pity  that  he 
made  another  on  the  top  of  it,  with  the  best  intentions.  He 
hurried  on  the  funeral,  hoping  that  when  "  all  was  over  "  the 
mother  would  "  settle  down." 

But  it  was  this  crowning  insult  to  her  agony,  the  shorten- 
ing of  the  too  brief  time  when  she  could  watch  by  all  that 
remained  to  her  of  her  child,  which  drove  her  completely 
wild.    She  reproached  him  now  plainly  and  bitterly  enough* 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  $ 

She  would  neither  listen  to  reason  nor  obey ;  and  when — ■ 
with  more  truth  than  taste — he  observed  that  other  people 
lost  children,  and  that  they  had  plenty  left,  she  laughed  in 
his  face  that  wild  laugh  which  drove  him  back  to  the  mill 
and  to  the  storm. 

How  it  raged  !  The  miller's  wife  was  an  uneducated,  com- 
monplace woman  enough,  but,  in  the  excited  state  of  her 
nervous  system,  she  was  as  sensible  as  any  poet  of  a  kind  of 
comforting  harmony  in  the  wild  sounds  without ;  though  at 
another  time  they  would  have  frightened  her. 

They  did  not  disturb  the  children,  who  were  in  bed.  Four 
in  the  old  press-bed  in  the  corner,  and  one  in  a  battered  crib, 
and  one  in  the  narrow  bed  over  which  the  coverlet  was  not 
yet  green. 

The  day's  work  was  over  for  her,  though  it  was  only  just 
beginning  for  the  miller,  and  the  mother  had  nothing  to  do 
but  weep,  and  her  tears  fell  and  fell,  and  the  rain  poured  and 
poured.  That  last  outburst  had  somewhat  relieved  her,  and 
she  almost  wished  her  husband  would  come  back,  as  a  flash 
of  lightning  dazzled  her  eyes,  and  the  thunder  rattled  round 
the  old  mill,  as  if  the  sails  had  broken  up  again,  and  were 
falling  upon  the  roof  of  the  round-house.  All  her  senses 
were  acute  to-night,  and  she  listened  for  the  miller's  footsteps, 
and  so,  listening,  in  the  lull  after  the  thunder,  she  heard  an- 
other sound.  -    Wheels  upon  the  road. 

A  pang  shot  through  her  heart.  Thus  had  the  doctor's 
gig  sounded  the  night  he  came, — alas,  too  late  !  How  long 
and  how  intensely  she  had  listened  for  that !  She  first  heard 
it  just  beyond  the  mile-stone.  This  one  must  be  a  good  bit 
on  this  side  of  it ;  up  the  hill,  in  fact.  She  could  not  help 
listening.  It  was  so  like,  so  terribly  like !  Now  it  spun 
along  the  level  ground.  Ah,  the  doctor  had  not  hurried  so ! 
Now  it  was  at  the  mill,  at  the  door,  and — it  stopped. 

The  miller's  wife  rose  to  run  out,  she  hardly  knew  why. 
But  in  a  moment  she  checked  herself,  and  weut  back  to  her 
seat. 

"  I  be  crazed,  surely,"  said  the  poor  woman,  sitting  down 
again.  "  There  be  more  gigs  than  one  in  the  world,  and 
folk  often  stops  to  ask  their  way  of  the  maester." 

These  travellers  were  a  long  time  about  the  putting  of 
suchasimple  question,  especially  as  the  night  was  not  a  pleas* 


6  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

ant  one  to  linger  out  in.  The  murmur  of  voices,  too,  which 
the  woman  overheard,  betoken  a  close  conversation,  in 
which  the  familiar  drawl  of  the  windmiller's  dialect  blended 
audibly  with  that  kind  of  clean-clipt  speaking  peculiar  to 
gentlefolk. 

"  He've  been  talking  to  master  's  five  minute  an'  more," 
muttered  the  miller's  wife.  "  What  can  'ee  want  with  un  ?  " 
The  talking  ceased  as  she  spoke,  and  the  windmiller  ap- 
peared, followed  by  a  woman  carrying  a  young  baby  in  her 
arms. 

He  was  a  ruddy  man  for  his  age  at  any  time,  but  there  was 
an  extra  flush  on  his  cheeks  just  now,  and  some  excitement 
in  his  manner,  making  him  look  as  his  wife  was  not  wont  to 
see  him  more  than  once  a  year,  after  the  Foresters'  dinner 
at  the  Heart  of  Oak.  There  was  a  difference,  too.  A  little 
too  much  drink  made  the  windmiller  peevish  and  pompous, 
but  just  now  he  spoke  in  a  kindly,  almost  conciliating  tone. 

"  See,  missus  !  Let  this  good  lady  dry  herself  a  bit,  and 
get  warm,  and  the  little  un  too." 

A  woman — ill-favored,  though  there  was  no  positive  fault 
to  be  found  with  her  features,  except  that  the  upper  lip  was 
long  and  cleft,  and  the  lower  one  very  large — came  forward 
with  the  child,  and  began  to  take  off  its  wraps,  and  the  mill- 
er's wife,  giving  her  face  a  hasty  wipe,  went  hospitably  to 
help  her. 

"Tst!  tst!  little  love !"  she  cried,  gulping  down  a  sob, 
due  to  her  own  sad  memories,  and  moving  the  cloak  more 
tenderly  than  the  woman  in  whose  arms  the  child  lay. 
"What  a  pair  of  dark  eyes,  then!  Is 't  a  boy  or  girl, 
m'm?" 

"  A  boy,"  said  a  voice  from  the  door,  and  the  miller's  wife, 
with  a  suppressed  shriek  of  timidity,  became  aware  of  a  man 
whose  entrance  she  had  not  perceived,  and  to  whom  she 
dropped  a  hasty  courtesy. 

He  was  a  man  slightly  above  the  middle  height,  whose 
slenderness  made  him  seem  taller.  An  old  cloak,  intended 
as  much  to  disguise  as  to  protect  him,  did  not  quite  conceal  a 
faultlessness  of  costume  beneath  it,  after  the  fashion  of  the 
day.  Waistcoats  of  three  kinds,  one  within  the  other,  a 
frilled  shirt,  and  a  well-adjusted  stock,  were  to  be  seen, 
though  he  held  the  ends  of  the  old  cloak  tightly  across  him, 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  7 

as  the  wind  would  have  caught  them  in  the  doorway.  He 
wore  a  countryman's  hat,  which  seemed  to  suit  him  as  little 
as  the  cloak,  and  from  beneath  the  brim  his  dark  eyes  glared 
with  a  restless,  dissatisfied  look,  and  were  so  dark  and  sa 
fierce  and  bright  that  one  could  hardly  see  any  other  details 
of  his  face,  unless  it  were  his  smooth  chin,  which,  either 
from  habit  or  from  the  stiffness  of  his  stock,  he  carried 
strangely  up  in  the  air. 

" Indeed,  sir,"  said  the  windmiller's  wife,  courtesying,  and 
setting  a  chair,  with  her  eyes  wandering  back  by  a  kind  of 
fascination  to  those  of  the  stranger;  "be  pleased  to  take  a 
seat,  sir." 

The  stranger  sat  down  for  a  moment,  and  then  stood  up 
again.  Then  he  seemed  to  remember  that  he  still  wore  his 
hat,  and  removed  it,  holding  it  stiffly  before  him  in  his 
gloved  hands.  This  displayed  a  high,  narrow  head,  on 
which  the  natural  hair  was  worn  short  and  without  parting, 
and  a  face  which,  though  worn,  was  not  old.  And,  for  no 
definable  reason,  an  impression  stole  over  the  windmiller's 
wife  that  he,  like  her  husband,  had  some  wish  to  conciliate, 
which  in  his  case  struggled  hard  Avith  a  very  different  kind 
of  feeling,  more  natural  to  him. 

Then  he  took  out  a  watch  of  what  would  now  be  called 
the  old  turnip  shape,  and  said  impatiently  to  the  miller, 
"  Our  time  is  short,  my  good  man." 

"  To  be  sure,  sir,"  said  the  windmiller.  "  Missus  !  a  word 
with  you  here."  And  he  led  the  way  into  the  round-house, 
where  his  wife  followed,  wondering.  Her  wonder  was  not 
lessened  when  he  laid  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder,  and,  with 
flushed  cheek  and  a  tone  of  excitement  that  once  more  re- 
called the  Foresters'  annual  meeting,  said,  "  We've  had 
some  sore  times,  missus,  of  late,  but  good  luck  have  come 
our  way  to-night." 

"  And  how  then,  maester  ?  "  faltered  his  wife. 

"  That  child,"  said  the  windmiller,  turning  his  broad 
thumb  expressively  towards  the  inner  room,  "  belongs  to 
folk  that  want  to  get  a  home  for  un,  and  can  afford  to  pay 
for  un,  too.  And  the  place  being  healthy  and  out  of  the 
way,  and  having  heard  of  our  trouble,  and  you  just  bereaved 
of  a  little  un  " — 

"  jSo  !   no !  no ! "  shrieked   the   poor   mother,   who  now 


a  Jan  of  the  windmill. 

understood  all.  "  I  couldn't,  maester,  'tis  impossible,  I 
could  not.  Oh  dear !  oh  dear !  isn't  it  bad  enough  to  lose 
the  sweetest  child  that  ever  saw  light,  without  taking  in  an 
outcast  to  fill  that  dear  angel's  place  ?     Oh  dear !  oh  dear  !  " 

"  And  we  behindhand  in  more  quarters  than  one,"  con- 
tinued the  miller,  prudently  ignoring  his  wife's  tears  and  re- 
monstrances, "and  a  dear  season  coming  on,  and  an  uncer- 
tain trade  that  keeps  a  man  idle  by  days  together,  and  here's 
ten  shillings  a  week  dropped  into  our  laps,  so  to  speak.  Ten 
shillings  a  week — regular  and  sartin.  No  less  now,  and 
no  more  hereafter,  the  governor  said.  Them  were  his 
words." 

"What's  ten  shilling  a  week  to  me,  and  my  child  dead 
and  gone  ?  "  moaned  the  mother,  in  reply. 

"  What's  ten  shillings  a  week  to  you?"  cried  the  wind- 
miller,  who  was  fairly  exasperated,  in  tones  so  loud  that 
they  were  audible  in  the  dwelling  room,  where  the  stranger, 
standing  by  the  three-legged  table,  stroked  his  lips  twice  or 
thrice  with  his  hand,  as  if  too  sooth  out  a  cynical  smile 
which  strove  to  disturb  their  decorous  and  somewhat  haughty 
compression.  "  What's  ten  shilling  a  week  to  you?  Why, 
it's  food  to  you,  and  drink  to  you,  and  firing  to  you,  and 
boots  for  the  children's  feet.  Look  here,  my  woman. 
You've  had  a  sore  affliction,  but  that's  not  to  say  you're  to 
throw  good  luck  in  the  dirt  for  a  whimsey.  This  matter's 
settled." 

And  the  miller  strode  back  into  the  inner  room,  whilst  his 
wife  sat  upon  a  sack  of  barley,  wringing  her  hands,  and 
moaning,  "  I  couldn't  do  my  duty  by  un,  maester,  I  couldn't 
do  my  duty  by  un." 

This  she  repeated  at  intervals,  with  her  apron  over  her 
face,  as  before  ;  and  then,  suddenly  aware  that  her  husband 
had  left  her,  she  hurried  into  the  inner  room  to  plead  her 
own  cause.  It  was  too  late.  The  strangers  had  gone. 
The  miller  was  not  there,  and  the  baby  lay  on  the  end  of 
the  press  bedstead,  wailing  as  bitterly  as  the  mother  her- 
self. 

It  had  been  placed  there,  with  a  big  bundle  of  clothes  by 
it,  before  the  miller  came  back,  and  he  had  found  it  so.  He 
found  the  stranger  too,  with  his  hat  on  his  head,  and  his 
cloak  fastened,  glancing  from  time  to  time  at  the  child,  and 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  9 

then  withdrawing  his  glance  hastily,  and  looking  forcedly 
round  at  the  meagre  furnishing  of  the  miller's  room,  and 
then  back  at  the  little  bundle  on  the  bed,  and  away  again. 
The  woman  stood  with  her  back  to  the  press-bed,  her  striped 
shawl  drawn  tightly  round  her,  and  her  hands  folded  to- 
gether as  closely  as  her  long  lip  pressed  the  heavy  one  be- 
low. 

"Is  it  settled  ?  "  asked  the  man. 

"It  is,  sir,"  said  the  miller.  "You'll  excuse  my  missus 
being  as  she  is,  but  it's  fretting  for  the  child  we've  a  lost " — 

"  I  understand,  I  understand,"  said  the  stranger,  hastily. 
He  was  pulling  back  the  rings  of  a  silk  netted  pui'se,  which 
he  had  drawn  mechanically  from  his  pocket,  and  which, 
from  some  sudden  start  of  his,  fell  chinking  on  to  the  floor. 
Whatever  the  thought  was  which  startled  him,  he  thought  it 
so  sharply  that  he  looked  up  in  fear  that  he  had  said  it  aloud. 
But  he  had  not  spoken,  and  the  miller  had  no  other  expres- 
sion than  that  of  an  eager  satisfaction  on  his  face  as  the 
stranger  counted  out  the  gold  by  the  flaring  light  of  the  tal- 
low candle. 

"A  quarter's  pay  in  advance,"  he  said  briefly.  "It  will 
be  paid  quarterly,  you  understand."  After  which,  and 
checking  himself  in  a  look  towards  the  child,  he  went  out, 
followed  by  the  woman. 

In  the  round-house  he  paused,  however,  and  looked  back 
into  the  meagre,  dimly  lighted  room,  where  the  little  bundle 
upon  the  bed  lay  weeping.  For  a  moment,  a  storm  of  irres- 
olution seemed  to  seize  him,  and  then  muttering,  "  It  can't 
be  helped  for  the  present,  it  can't  be  helped,"  he  hurried  to- 
wards the  vehicle,  in  the  back  seat  of  which  the  woman  was 
already  seated. 

The  driver  touched  his  hat  to  him  as  he  approached,  and 
turned  the  cushion,  which  he  had  been  protecting  from  the 
rain.  The  stranger  stumbled  over  the  cloak  as  he  got  in, 
and,  cursing  the  step,  bade  the  man  drive  like  something 
which  had  no  connection  with  driving.  But,  as  they  turned, 
the  windmiller  ran  out  and  after  them. 

"  Stop,  sir  !  "  he  cried. 

"Well,  what  now?"  said  the  stranger,  sharply,  as  the 
horse  was  pulled  back  on  his  haunches. 

"  Is  it  named  ?  "  gasped  the  millej\ 


10  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

"  Oh,  yes,  all  that  sort  of  thing,"  was  the  impatient  reply. 

"  And  what  name?  "  asked  the  miller. 

"Jan.  J,  A,  N,"  said  the  stranger,  shouting  against  the 
blustering  wind. 

"  And — and — the  other  name?"  said  the  windmiller,  who 
was  now  standing  close  to  the  stranger's  ear. 

"  What  is  yours  ? "  he  asked,  with  a  sharp  look  of  his 
dark  eyes. 

"  Lake — Abel,"  said  the  windmiller. 

"  It  is  his  also,  henceforth,"  said  the  stranger,  waving  his 
hand,  as  if  to  close  the  subject, — "  Jan  Lake.  Drive  on,  will 
you  ?  " 

The  horse  started  forward,  and  they  whirled  away  down 
the  wet,  gray  road.  And  before  the  miller  had  regained  his 
mill,  the  carriage  was  a  distant  speck  upon  the  storm. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  MILLER'S  CALCULATIONS HIS  HOPES  AND  FEARS 

THE  NURSE-BOY CALM. 

The  windmiller  went  back  to  his  work.  He  had  risked 
something  over  this  business  in  leaving  the  mill  in  the  hands 
of  others,  even  for  so  short  a  time. 

Then  the  storm  abated  somewhat.  The  wind  went  round, 
and  blew  with  less  violence  a  fine  steady  breeze.  The  mil- 
ler began  to  think  of  going  into  the  dwelling-room  for  a 
bit  of  supper  to  carry  him  through  his  night's  work.  And 
yet  he  lingered  about  returning  to  his  wife  in  her  present 
mood. 

He  stuck  the  sharp  point  of  his  windmiller's  candlestick* 
into  a  sack  that  stood  near,  and  drawing  up  a  yellow  canvas 
"  sample  bag " — which  served  him  as  a  purse — from  the 
depths  of  his  pocket,  he  began  to  count  the  coins  by  the  light 
of  the   candle.     He   counted  them  over  several  times  with 

*  Windmiller's  candlesticks  are  flat  candlesticks  made  of  iron,  with  a 
long  handle  on  one  side,  and  a  sharp  spike  on  the  other,  by  which  they  can 
be  stuck  into  the  wall,  or  into  a  sack  of  grain,  or  anywhere  that  may  be 
convenient.  Each  man  who  works  in  the  mill  has  a  candlestick,  and  one 
is  always  kept  alight  and  stationary  on  the  basement  floor. 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  II 

increasing  satisfaction,  and  made  several  slow  but  sure  calcu- 
lations as  to  the  sum  of  ten  shillings  a  week  by  the  month, 
the  quarter,  the  half,  and  the  whole  year.  He  then  b"3gai> 
another  set  of  calculations  of  a  kind  less  pleasant,  especially 
to  an  honest  man, — his  debts. 

"  There's  a  good  bit  to  the  doctor  for  both  times,"  hft 
murmured ;  "  and  there's  the  coffin,  and  something  at  tha 
Heart  of  Oak  for  the  bearers,  and  a  couple  of  bottles  ret) 
wine  there,  too,  for  the  missus,  when  she  were  so  bad.  And 
both  the  boys  had  new  shoes  to  follow  in, — she  would  have 
it  they  should'  follow  "—And  so  on,  and  so  on,  the  windmil- 
ler  ran  up  the  list  of  his  petty  debts,  and  saw  his  way  to 
paying  them.  Then  he  put  the  money  back  into  the  sample 
bag,  and  folded  it  very  neatly,  and  stowed  it  away.  And 
then  he  drew  near  the  inner  door,  and  peeped  into  the 
room. 

His  poor  wife  seemed  to  be  in  no  better  case  than  before. 
She  sat  on  the  old  rocking-chair,  swinging  backwards  and 
forwards,  and  beating  her  hands  upon  her  knees  in  silence, 
and  making  no  movement  to  comfort  the  wailing  little 
creature  on  the  bed. 

For  the  first  time  there  came  upon  the  windmiller  a  sense 
of  the  fact  that  it  is  an  uncertain  and  a  rather  dangerous 
game  to  drive  a  desperate  woman  into  a  corner.  His  missus 
was  as  soft-hearted  a  soul  as  ever  lived,  and  for  her  to  sit 
unmoved  by  the  weeping  of  a  neglected  child  was  a  proof 
that  something  was  very  far  wrong  indeed.  One  or  two 
nasty  stories  of  what  tender-hearted  women  had  done  when 
"crazed"  by  grief  haunted  him.  The  gold  seemed  to  grow 
hot  at  the  bottom  of  his  pocket.  He  wished  he  had  got  at 
the  stranger's  name  and  address,  in  case  it  should  be  desir- 
able to  annul  the  bargain.  He  wished  the  misses  would  cry 
again,  that  silence  was  worse  than  any  thing.  He  wished  it 
did  not  just  happen  to  come  into  his  head  that  her  grand- 
mother went  "  melancholy  mad  "  when  she  was  left  a  young 
widow,  and  that  she  had  had  an  uncle  in  business  who  died 
of  softening  of  the  brain. 

He  wished  she  would  move  across  the  room  and  take  up 
the  child,  with  an  intensity  that  almost  amounted  to  prayer. 
And,  in  the  votive  spirit  which  generally  comes  with  such 
moments,  he  mentally  resolved  that3  if  bis  missus  would  but 


13  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

"  take  to  "  the  infant,  he  would  humor  her  on  all  other  points 
just  now  to  the  best  of  his  power. 

A  strange  fulfilment  often  treads  on  the  heels  of  such 
vows.  At  this  moment  the  wailing  of  the  baby  disturbed 
the  miller's  eldest  son  as  he  lay  in  the  press-bed.  He  was 
only  seven  years  old,  but  he  had  been  nurse-boy  to  his  dead 
sister  during  the  brief  period  of  her  health, — the  more 
exclusively  so,  that  the  miller's  wife  was  then  weakly, — and 
had  watched  by  her  sick  cradle  with  grief  scarcely  less  than 
that  of  the  mother.  He  now  crept  out  and  down  the  cover- 
let to  the  wailing  heap  of  clothes,  with  a  bright,  puzzled  look 
on  his  chubby  face. 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  "  mother  !  Is  the  little  un  come 
back?" 

"No,  no!"  she  cried.  "That's  not  our'n.  It's — it's 
another  one." 

"Have  the  Lord  sent  us  another?"  said  the  boy,  lifting 
the  peak  of  the  little  hood  from  the  baby's  eye,  into  which 
it  was  hanging,  and  then  fairly  gathering  the  tiny  creature, 
by  a  great  effort,  into  his  arms,  with  the  daring  of  a  child 
accustomed  to  playing  nurse  to  one  nearly  as  heavy  as  him- 
self. "I  do  be  glad  of  that,  mother.  The  Lord  sent  the 
other  one  in  the  night,  too,. mother;  that  night  we  slept  in 
the  round-house.  "  Do  'ee  mind  ?  Whishty,  whishty,  love ! 
Eh,  mother,  what  eyes  !  Whishty,  whishty,  then  !  Pm 
seeing  to  thee,  I  am." 

There  was  something  like  a  sob  in  the  miller's  own  throat, 
but  his  wife  rose,  and,  running  to  the  bed,  fell  on  her  knees, 
and  with  such  a  burst  of  weeping  as  is  the  thaw  of  bitter 
grief  gathered  her  eldest  child  and  the  little  out-cast  together 
on  her  bosom. 

At  this  moment  another  head  was  poked  up  from  the 
bedclothes,  and  the  second  child  began  to  say  its  say,  hop- 
ing, perhaps,  thereby  to  get  a  share  of  attention  and  kisses 
as  well  as  the  other. 

"  I  seed  a  lady  and  genle'm,"  it  broke  forth,  "  and  was 
feared  of  un.  They  was  going  out  of  doors.  The  genle'm 
look  back  at  us,  but  the  lady  went  right  on.  I  didn'  see  her 
face." 

Matters  were  now  in  a  domestic  and  straightforward  con- 
dition, and  the  windmiller  no  longer  hesitated  to  come  w. 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  1 3 

But  he  was  less  disposed  to  a  hard  and  triumphant  self- 
satisfaction  than  was  common  with  him  when  his  will  ended 
well.  A  poor  and  unsuccessful  career  had,  indeed,  some- 
thing to  do  with  the  hardness  of  his  nature,  and  in  this  flush 
of  prosperity  he  felt  softened,  and  resolved  inwardly  to  "let 
the  missus  take  her  time,"  and  come  back  to  her  ordinary 
condition  without  interference. 

"Shall  un  have  a  bit  of  supper,  missus?"  was  his  cheer- 
fid  'greeting  on  coming  in.  "But  take  your  time,"  he 
added,  seeing  her  busy  with  the  baby,  "  take  your  time." 

By-and-by  the  nurse-boy  took  the  child,  and  the  woman 
bustled  about  the  supper.  She  was  still  but  half  reconciled, 
and  slapped  the  plates  on  to  the  table  with  a  very  uncom- 
mon irritability. 

The  windmiller  ate  a  hearty  supper  and  wrashed  it  well 
down  with  home-made  ale,  under  the  satisfactory  feeling 
that  he  could  pay  for  more  when  he  wanted  it.  And  as  he 
began  to  plug  his  pipe  with  tobacco,  and  his  wife  rocked  the 
new-comer  at  her  breast,  he  said  thoughtfully, — 
\  "  Do  'ee  think,  missus,  that  woman  'ud  be  the  mother  of 
un?" 

"  Mother  !  "  cried  his  wife,  scornfully.  "  She've  never 
been  a  mother,  maester ;  of  this  nor  any  other  one.  To  see 
her  handle  it  was  enough  for  me.  The  boy  himself  could 
see  she  never  so  much  as  looked  back  at  un.  To  bring  an 
infant  out  a  night  like  this,  too,  and  leave  it  with  strangers. 
Mother,  indeed,  says  he!" 

"Take  your  time,  missus,  take  your  time!"  murmured 
the  miller  in  his  head.  He  did  not  speak  aloud,  he  only 
puffed  his  pipe. 

"Do  you  suppose  the  genle'm  be  the  father,  missus?"  he 
suggested,  as  he  rose  to  go  back  to  his  work. 

"Maybe,"  said  his  wife,  briefly;  "I  can't  speak  one  way 
or  another  to  the  feelings  of  men-folk." 

This  blow  was  hit  straight  out,  but  the  windmiller  for- 
bore reply.  He  was  not  altogether  ill-pleased  by  it,  for  the 
woman's  unwonted  peevishness  broke  down  in  new  tears 
over  the  child,  whom  she  bore  away  to  bed,  pouring  forth 
over  it  half  inarticulate  indignation  against  its  unnatural 
parents. 

"  She've   a  soft  heart,  have  the  missus,"  said  the  wind.- 


14  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL, 

miller,  thoughtfully,  as  went  to  the  outer  door.  "  I'm  in 
doubts  if  she  won't  take  to  it  more  than  her  own  yet.  But 
she  shall  have  her  own  time." 

The  storm  had  passed.  The  wolds  lay  glistening  and 
dreary  under  a  watery  sky,  but  all  was  still.  The  wind- 
miller  looked  upwards  mechanically.  To  be  weather  wise 
was  part  of  his  trade.  But  his  thoughts  were  not  in  the 
clouds  to-night.  He  brought  the  sample  bag,  without  think- 
ing of  it,  to  the  surface  of  his  pocket,  and  dropped  it  slowly 
back  again,  murmuring,  "  Ten  shilling  a  week." 

And  as  he  turned  again  to  his  night's  work  he  added, 
with  a  nod  of  complete  conviction,  "It'll  more'n  keep 
he." 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE      WINDMILLER'S       WORDS      COME       TRUE THE      RED 

SHAWL. — IN    THE    CLOUDS NURSING   V.  PIG-MINDING 

THE    ROUND-HOUSE. THE    MILLER'S    THUMB. 

Strange  to  say,  the  windmiller's  idea  came  true  in  time, 
— the  foster-child  was  the  favorite. 

He  was  the  youngest  of  the  family,  for  the  mother  had  no 
more  children.     This  goes  for  something. 

Then,  when  she  had  once  got  over  her  repugnance  to 
adopting  hi  in,  he  did  do  much  to  heal  the  old  grief,  and 
to  fill  the  emply  place  in  her  heart  as  well  as  in  the  cra- 
dle. 

He  was  a  frail,  fretful  little  creature,  with  a  very  red  face 
just  fading  into  yellow,  about  as  much  golden  down  on  his  lit- 
tle pate  as  would  furnish  a  moth  with  plumage,  and  eyes  like 
sloe-berries.  It  was  fortunate  rather  than  otherwise  that  he 
was  so  ailing  for  some  weeks  that  the  good  wife's  anxieties 
came  .over  again,  and,  in  the  triumph  of  being  this  time 
successful,  much  of  the  bitterness  of  the  old  loss  passed 
away. 

In  a  month's  tinip  he  looked  healthy,  if  not  absolutely 
handsome.  The  windmill  t'-;  wifr,  indeed,  protested  that 
he  was   lovely,  and   sU    i..jvc»  wearied  of  marvelling  at  t&9 


J  AN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  t$ 

unnatural  conduct  of  those  who  had  found  it  in  their  hearts 
to  intrust  so  sweet  a  child  to  the  care  of  strangers ;  though 
it  must  be  confessed  that  nothing  would  have  pleased  her  less 
than  the  arrival  of  two  doting  and  conscientious  parents  to 
reclaim  him. 

Indeed,  pity  had  much  to  do  with  the  large  measure  of 
love  that  she  gave  to  the  deserted  child.  A  meaner  senti- 
ment, too,  was  not  quite  without  its  influence  in  the  predom- 
inance which  he  gradually  gained  over  his  foster  brothers 
and  sisters.  There  was  little  enough  to  be  proud  of  in  all 
that  could  be  guessed  as  to  his  parentage  (the  windmiller 
knew  nothing),  but  there  was  scope  for  any  amount  of  fancy  ; 
and  if  the  child  displayed  any  better  manners  or  talents  than 
the  other  children,  Mrs.  Lake  would  purse  her  lips,  and  say, 
with  a  somewhat  shabby  pride, — 

"Anybody  may  see  'tis  gentry  born." 

"  I've  been  thinking,"  said  the  windmiller,  one  day,  "  that 
if  that  there  woman  weren't  the  mother,  'tis  likely  the 
mother's  dead." 

"  'Tis  likely,  too,"  said  his  wife ;  and  her  kindness 
abounded  the  more  towards  the  motherless  child. 

Little  Abel  was  nurse-boy  to  it,  as  he  had  been  to  his  sis- 
ter. Not  much  more  than  a  baby  himself,  he  would  wrap  an 
old  shawl  round  the  baby  who  was  quite  a  baby,  stagger  care- 
fully out  at  the  door,  and  drop  dexterously — baby  upper- 
most— on  to  the  short,  dry  grass  that  lay  for  miles  about  the 
mill. 

The  shawl  was  a  special  shawl,  though  old.  It  was  red, 
and  the  bright  color  seemed  to  take  the  child's  fancy;  he 
was  never  so  good  as  when  playing  upon  the  gay  old  rag. 
His  black  eyes  would  sparkle,  and  his  tiny  fingers  clutch  at 
it,  when  the  mother  put  it  about  him  as  he  swayed  in 
Abel's  courageous  grasp.  And  then  Abel  would  spread  it 
for  him,  like  an  eastern  prayer  carpet,  under  the  shadow  of 
the  old  mill. 

Little  need  had  be  of  any  medicine,  when  the  fresh  strong 
air  that  blew  about  the  downs  was  filling  his  little  lungs  for 
most  of  the  day.  Little  did  he  WTant  toys,  as  he  lay  on  his 
red  shawl  gazing  upwards  hour  by  hour,  with  Abel  to  point 
out  every  change  in  their  vast  field  of  view. 

It  is  a  part  of  a  windmiller's  trade  to  study  the  heaven^ 


iS  J  AN  OP  THE  WINDMILL. 

and  Abel  may  have  inherited  a  taste  for  looking  skywards. 
Then,  on  these  great  open  downs  there  is  so  much  sky  to  be 
seen,  you  can  hardly  help  seeing  it,  and  there  is  not  much 
else  to  look  at.  Had  they  lived  in  a  village  street,  or  even  a 
lane,  Abel  and  his  charge  might  have  taken  to  other  amuse- 
ments,— to  games,  to  grubbing  in  hedges,  or  amid  the  end- 
less treasures  of  ditches.  But  as  it  was,  they  lay  hour  after 
hour  and  looked  at  the  sky,  as  at  an  open  picture-book 
with  ever-changing  leaves. 

"  Look  'ee  here  !  "  the  nurse-boy  would  cry.  "  See  to 
the  crows,  the  pretty  black  crows !  Eh,  there  be  a  lap- 
wing !  Lap-py,  lap-py,  lap-py,  there  he  go !  Janny  catch 
un !  " 

And  the  baby  would  stretch  his  arms  responsive  to 
Abel's  expressive  signs,  and  cry  aloud  for  the  vanishing 
bird. 

If  no  living  creature  crossed  the  ether,  there  were  the 
clouds.  Sometimes  a  long  triangular  mass  of  small  white 
fleecy  clouds  would  stretch  across  half  the  heavens,  having 
its  shortest  side  upon  the  horizon,  and  its  point  at  the  zenith, 
where  one  white  fleece  seemed  to  be  leading  a  gradually 
widening  flock  across  the  sky. 

"  See  then  !  "  the  nurse-boy  would  cry.  "  See  to  the 
pretty  sheep  up  yonder !     Janny  mind  un  !     So !  so !  " 

And  if  some  small  gray  scud,  floating  lower,  ran  past 
the  far-away  cirrus,  Abel  would  add  with  a  quaint  serious- 
ness, "'Tis  the  sheep-dog.  How  he  runs  then!  Bow- 
wow ! " 

At  sunset  such  a  flock  wore  golden  fleeces,  and  to  them, 
and  to  the  crimson  hues  about  them,  the  little  Jan  stretched 
his  fingers,  and  crowed,  as  if  he  would  have  clutched  the 
western  sky  as  he  clutched  his  own  red  shawl. 

But  Abel  was  better  pleased  when,  in  the  dusk,  the  flock 
became  dark  gray. 

"  They  be  Master  Salter's  pigs  now,"  said  he.  For  pigs 
in  Abel's  native  place  were  both  plentiful  and  black  ;  and 
he  had  herded  Master  Salter's  flock  (five  and  twenty  black, 
and  three  spotted)  for  a  whole  month  before  his  services  were 
required  as  nurse-boy  to  his  sister. 

But  for  the  coming  of  the  new  baby,  he  would  probably 
have  gone  back  to  the  pigs.     And  he  preferred  babies.     A 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  t? 

baby  demands  attention  as  well  as  a  herd  of  pigs,  but  you 
can  get  it  home.  It  does  not  run  off  in  twenty-eight  differ- 
ent directions,  just  when  you  think  you  have  safely  turned 
the  corner  into  the  village. 

Master  Salter's  swine  suffered  neglect  at  the  hands  of  sev- 
eral successors  to  the  office  Abel  had  held,  and  Master  Sal- 
ter— whilst  alluding  to  these  in  indignant  terms  as  "  young 
varments,"  "  gallus  birds,"  and  so  forth — was  pleased  to  ex- 
press his  regret  that  the  gentle  and  trustworthy  Abel  had 
given  up  pig-minding  for  nursing. 

The  pigs'  loss  was  the  baby's  gain.  No  tenderer  or 
more  careful  nurse  could  the  little  Jan  have  had.  And  he 
throve  apace. 

The  windmiller  took  more  notice  of  him  than  he  had  been 
wont  to  do  of  his  own  children  in  their  babyhood.  He  had 
never  been  a  playful  or  indulgent  father,  but  he  now  watched 
with  considerable  interest  the  child  who,  all  unconsciously, 
was  bringing  in  so  much  "  grist  to  the  mill." 

When  the  weather  was  not  fine  enough  for  them  to  be  out 
of  doors,  Abel  would  play  with  his  charge  in  the  round- 
house, and  the  windmiller  never  drove  him  out  of  the  mill, 
as  at  one  time  he  would  have  done.  Now  and  then,  too,  he 
would  pat  the  little  Jan's  head,  and  bestow  a  word  of  praiso 
on  his  careful  guardian. 

It  may  be  well,  by-the-by,  to  explain  what  a  round-house 
is.  Some  of  the  brick  or  tower  mills  widen  gradually  and 
evenly  to  the  base.  Others  widen  abruptly  at  the  lowest 
story,  which  stands  out  all  round  at  the  bottom  of  the  mill, 
and  has  a  roof  running  all  round  too.  The  projection  is,  in 
fact,  an  additional  passage,  encircling  the  bottom  story  of  the 
windmill.  It  is  the  round-house.  If  you  take  a  pill-box  to 
represent  the  basement  floor  of  a  tower-mill,  and  then  put 
another  pill-box  two  or  three  sizes  larger  over  it,  you  have 
got  the  circular  passage  between  the  two  boxes,  and  have 
added  a  round-house  to  the  mill.  The  round-house  is  com- 
monly used  as  a  kind  of  store-room. 

Abel  Lake's  windmill  had  no  separate  dwelling-house. 
His  grandfather  had  built  the  windmill,  and  even  his  father 
had  left  it  to  the  son  to  add  a  dwelling-house,  when  he  should 
perhaps  have  extended  his  resources  by  a  bit  of  farming  or 
some  other  business,  such  as  windmillers  often  add  to  their 
2 


18  Jan  op  tne  windmill. 

trade  proper.  But  that  calamity  of  the  broken  sails  had 
left  Abel  Lake  no  power  for  further  outlay  for  many  years, 
and  he  had  to  be  content  to  live  in  the  mill. 

The  dwelling-room  was  the  inner  part  of  the  basement 
floor.  Near  the  door  which  led  from  this  into  the  round- 
house was  the  ladder  leading  to  the  next  story,  and  close  by 
that  the  opening  through  which  the  sacks  of  grain  were 
drawn  up  above.  The  story  above  the  basement  held  the 
millstones  and  the  "  smutting "  machine,  for  cleaning  dirty 
wheat.  The  next  above  that  held  the  dressing  machine,  in 
which  the  bran  was  separated  from  the  flour.  In  the  next 
above  that  were  the  corn-bins.  To  the  next  above  that  the 
grain  was  drawn  up  from  the  basement  in  the  first  instance. 
The  top  story  of  all  held  the  machinery  connected  with  the 
turning  of  the  sails.  Ladders  led  from  story  to  story,  and 
each  room  had  two  windows  on  opposite  sides  of  the  mill. 

Use  is  second  nature,  and  all  the  sounds  which  haunt  a 
windmill  were  soon  as  familiar  and  as  pleasant  to  the  little 
Jan  as  if  he  had  been  born  a  windmiller's  son.  Through 
many  a  windy  night  he  slept  as  soundly  as  a  sailor  in  a 
breeze  which  might  disturb  the  nerves  of  a  land-lubber. 
And  when  the  north  wind  blew  keen  and  steadily,  and  the 
chains  jangled  as  the  sacks  of  grist  went  upwards,  and  the 
millstones  ground  their  monotonous  music  above  his  head, 
these  sounds  were  only  as  a  lullaby  to  his  slumbers,  and  dis- 
turbed him  no  more  than  they  troubled  his  foster-mother,  to 
whom  the  revolving  stones  ground  out  a  homely  and  wel- 
come measure  :  "  Dai-ly    bread,  dai-ly  bread,  dai-ly  bread." 

For  another  sign  of  his  being  a  true  child  of  the  mill,  his 
nurse  Abel  anxiously  watched. 

Though  Abel  preferred  nursing  to  pig-minding,  he  had  a 
higher  ambition  yet,  which  Was  lo  begin  his  career  as  a 
windmiller.  It  was  not  likely  that  he  could  be  of  use  to  his 
father  for  a  year  or  two,  and  the  fact  that  he  was  of  very 
great  use  to  his  mother  naturally  tended  to  delay  his  promo- 
tion to  the  mill. 

Mrs.  Lake  was  never  allowed  to  say  no  to  her  husband, 
and  she  seemed  to  be  unable,  and  was  certainly  unwilling, 
to  say  it  to  her  children.  Happily,  her  eldest  child  was  of 
so  sweet  and  docile  a  temper  that  spoiling  did  him  little 
harm;  but  even  with  him  her  inability  to  say  no  got  the 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  19 

mother  into  difficulties.  She  was  obliged  to  invent  ex- 
cuses to  "  tub  off,"  when  she  could  neither  consent  nor  re- 
fuse. 

So,  when  Abel  used  to  cling  about  her,  crying,  "  Mother 
dear,  when'll  I  be  put  t'  help  father  in  the  mill  ?  Do  'ee  ask 
an  to  let  me  come  in  now !  I  be  able  to  sweep's  well  as 
Gearge.  I  sweeps  the  room  for  thee," — she  had  not  the 
heart  or  the  courage  to  say,  "  I  want  thee,  and  thy  father 
doesn't,"  but  she  would  take  the  boy's  hand  tenderly  in  hers, 
and  making  believe  to  examine  his  thumbs  with  a  purpose, 
would  reply,  "  Wait  a  bit,  love.  Thee's  a  sprack  boy,  and  a 
good  un,  but  thee's  not  rightly  got  the  miller's  thumb." 

And  thus  it  came  about  that  Abel  was  for  ever  sifting  bits 
of  Hour  through  his  finger  and  thumb,  to  obtain  the  required 
flatness  and  delicacy  which  marks  the  latter  in  a  miller 
born  ;  and  playing  lovingly  with  little  Jan  on  the  floor  of  the 
round-house,  he  would  pass  some  through  the  baby's  fingers 
also,  crying, — 

"  Sift  un,  Janny !  sift  un !  Thee's  a  miller's  lad,  and 
thee  must  have  a  miller's  thumb." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

BLACK     AS     SLANS. — VAIR     AND     VOOLISH. THE     MILLER 

AND    HIS   MAN. 

It  was  a  great  and  important  time  to  Abel  when  Jan 
learned  to  walk ;  but,  as  he  was  neither  precocious  nor  be- 
hindhand in  this  respect,  his  biographer  may  be  pardoned  for 
not  dwelling  on  it  at  any  length. 

He  had  a  charming  demure  little  face,  chiefly  differing 
from  the  faces  of  the  other  children  of  the  district  by  an 
overwhelming  superiority  in  the  matter  of  forehead. 

Mrs.  Lake  had  had  great  hopes  that  he  would  differ  in 
another  respect  also. 

Most  of  the  children  of  the  neighborhood  were  fair.  Not 
fair  as  so  many  North-country  children  are,  with  locks  of 
differing,  but  equally  brilliant,  shades  of  gold,  auburn,  red, 
and  bronze  j  but  white-headed,  and  often  white-faced,  with 


20  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

white-lashed  inexpressive  eyes,  as  if  they  had  been  bleach- 
ing through  several  generations. 

Now,  when  the  dark  bright  eyes  of  the  little  Jan  first 
came  to  be  of  tender  interest  with  Mrs.  Lake,  she  fully 
hoped,  and  constantly  prophesied,  that  he  would  be  "  as 
black  as  a  rook;"  a  style  of  complexion  to  which  she  gave 
a  distinct  preference,  though  the  miller  was  fair  by  nature 
as  well  as  white  by  trade.     Jan's  eyes  seemed  conclusive. 

"  Black  as  slans  they  be,"  said  his  foster-mother.  And 
slans  meant  sloe-berries  where  Mrs.  Lake  was  born. 

An  old  local  saying  had  something  perhaps  to  do  with  her 
views : — 

"Lang  and  lazy, 
Black  and  proud ; 
Vair  and  voolish, 
Little  and  loud." 

"Fair  and  foolish"  youngsters  certainly  abounded  in 
the  neighborhood  to  an  extent  which  justified  a  wish  for  a 
change. 

As  to  pride,  meek  Mrs.  Lake  was  far  from  regarding  it  as 
a  failing  in  those  who  had  anything  to  be  proud  of,  such  as 
black  hair  and  a  possible  connection  with  the  gentry.  And 
fate  having  denied  to  her  any  chance  of  being  proud  or  ag- 
gressive on  her  own  account,  she  derived  a  curious  sort  of 
second-hand  satisfaction  from  seeing  these  qualities  in  those 
who  belonged  to  her.  It  did  to  some  extent  console  her  for 
the  miller's  roughness  to  herself,  to  hear  him  rating  George. 
And.  she  got  a  sort  of  reflected  dignity  out  of  being  able  to 
say,  "  My  maester's  a  man  as  will  have  his  way." 

But  her  hopes  were  not  realized.  That  yellow  into  which 
the  beefsteak  stage  of  Jan's  infant  complexion  had  faded  was 
not  destined  to  deepen  into  gipsy  hues.  It  gave  place  to  the 
tints  of  the  China  rose,  and  all  the  wind  and  sunshine  on  the 
downs  could  not  tan,  though  they  sometimes  burnt,  his 
cheeks.  The  hair  on  his  little  head  became  more  abundant, 
but  it  kept  its  golden  hue.  His  eyes  remained  dark, — a 
curious  mixture ;  for  as  to  hair  and  complexion  he  was  irre- 
deemably fair. 

The  mill  had  at  least  one  "  vair  and  voolish  "  inmate,  by 
common  account,  though  by  his  own  (given  in  confidence  to 
intimate  friends)  he  was  "  not  zuch  a  vool  as  he  looked." 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  21 

This  was  George  Sannel,  tlie  miller's  man. 

Master  Lake  had  had  a  second  hand  in  to  help  on  that 
stormy  night  when  Jan  made  his  first  appearance  at  the  mill ; 
but  as  a  rule  he  only  kept  one  man,  whom  he  hired  for  a 
year  at  a  time,  at  the  mop  or  hiring  fair  held  yearly  in  the 
next  town. 

George,  or  Gearge  as  he  was  commonly  called,  had  been 
more  than  two  years  in  the  windmill,  and  was  looked  upon 
in  all  respects  as  "  one  of  the.  family."  He  slept  on  a 
truckle-bed  in  the  round-house,  which,  though  of  average 
size,  would  not  permit  him  to  stretch  his  legs  too  recklessly 
without  exposing  his  feet  to  the  cold. 

For  "  Gearge  "  was  six  feet  one  and  three-quarters  in  his 
stockings. 

He  had  a  face  in  some  respects  like  a  big  baby's.  He  had 
a  turn-up  nose,  large  smooth  cheeks,  a  particularly  innocent 
expression,  a  forehead  hardly  worth  naming,  small  dull  eyes, 
with  a  tendency  to  inflammation  of  the  lids  which  may  pos- 
sibly have  hindered  the  lashes  from  growing,  and  a  mouth 
which  was  generally  open,  if  he  were  neither  eating  or  suck- 
ing a  "bennet."  When  this  countenance  was  bathed  in 
flour,  it  might  be  an  open  question  whether  it  were  improved 
or  no.  It  certainly  looked  both  "vairer"  and  more 
"voolish!" 

There  is  some  evidence  to  show  that  he  was  "  lazy,"  as 
well  as  "  lang,"  and  yet  he  and  Master  Lake  contrived  to 
pull  on  together. 

Either  because  his  character  was  as  childlike  as  his  face, 
and  because — if  stupid  and  slothful  by  nature — he  was  also 
of  so  submissive,  susceptible,  and  willing  a  temper  that  he 
disarmed  the  justest  wrath  ;  or  because  he  was,  as  he  said, 
not  such  a  fool  as  he  looked,  and  had  in  his  own  lubberly 
way  taken  the  measure  of  the  masterful  windmiller  to  a 
nicety,  George's  most  flagrant  acts  of  neglect  had  never  yet 
secured  his  dismissal. 

Indeed,  it  really  is  difficult  to  realize  that  any  one  who  is 
lavish  of  willingness  by  word  can  wilfully  and  culpably  fail 
in  deed. 

"I  be  a  uncommon  vool,  maester,  sartinly,"  blubbered 
George  on  one  occasion  when  the  miller  was  on  the  point  of 
turning  him  off,  as  a  preliminary  step  on  the  road  to  thf 


22  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

"gallus,"  which  Master  Lake  expressed  his  belief  that  he 
was  "  sartin  sure  to  come  to/'  And,  as  he  spoke,  George 
made  dismal  daubs  on  his  befloured  face  with  his  sleeve,  as 
he  rubbed  his  eyes  with  his  arm  from  elbow  to  wrist. 

"Sech  a  governor  as  you  be,  too!  "  he  continued.  "Poor 
mother !  she  alius  said  I  should  come  to  no  good,  such  a 
gawney  as  I  be  !  No  more  I  shouldn't  but  for  you,  Master 
Lake,  a-keeping  of  me  on.  Give  un  another  chance,  sir,  do 
'ee  !  I  be  mortal  stoopid,  sir,  but  I'd  work  my  fingers  to 
the  bwoan  for  the  likes  of  you,  Master  Lake ! " 

George  stayed  on,  and  though  the  very  next  time  the 
windmiller  was  absent  his  "voolish  "  assistant  did  not  get  so 
much  as  a  toll-dish  of  corn  ground  to  flour,  he  was  so  full  of 
penitence  and  promises  that  he  weathered  that  tempest  and 
many  a  succeeding  one. 

On  that  very  eventful  night  of  the  storm,  and  of  Jan's 
arrival,  George's  neglect  had  risked  a  recurrence  of  the  sail 
catastrophe.  At  least  if  the  second  man's  report  was  to  be 
trusted. 

This  man  had  complained  to  the  windmiller  that,  during 
his  absence  with  the  strangers,  George,  instead  of  doubling 
his  vigilance  now  that  the  men  were  left  short-handed,  had 
taken  himself  off  under  pretext  of  attending  to  the  direction 
of  the  wind  and  the  position  of  the  sails  outside,  a  most  im- 
portant matter,  to  which  he  had  not,  after  all,  paid  the 
slightest  heed ;  and  what  he  did  with  himself,  whilst  leaving 
the  mill  to  its  fate  and  the  fury  of  the  storm,  his  indignant 
fellowr-servant  professed  himself  "blessed  if  he  knew." 

But  few  people  are  as  grateful  as  they  should  be  when 
informed  of  misconduct  in  their  own  servants.  It  is  a  reflec- 
tion on  one's  judgment. 

And  unpardonable  as  George's  conduct  was,  if  the  tale 
were  true,  the  words  in  which  he  couched  his  self-defence 
were  so  much  more  grateful  to  the  ears  of  the  windmiller 
than  the  somewhat  free  and  independent  style  in  which  the 
other  man  expressed  his  opinion  of  George's  conduct  and 
qualities,  that  the  master  took  his  servant's  part,  and 
snubbed  the  informer  for  his  pains. 

In  justice  to  George,  too,  it  should  be  said  that  he  stoutly 
and  repeatedly  denied  the  whole  story,  with  many  oaths  and 
imprecations  of  horrible  calamities  upon  himself  if  he  were 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  23 

lying  in  the  smallest  particular.  And  this  with  reiteration 
so  steady,  and  a  countenance  so  guileless  and  unmoved,  as  to 
contrast  favorably  with  the  face  of  the  other  man,  whose 
voice  trembled  and  whose  forehead  flushed,  either  with  over- 
whelming indignation  or  with  a  guilty  consciousness  that  he 
was  bearing  false  witness. 

Master  Lake  employed  him  no  more,  and  George  stayed 
on. 

But,  for  that  matter,  Master  Lake's  disposition  was  not 
one  which  permitted  him  to  profit  by  the  best  qualities  of 
those  connected  with  him.  He  was  a  bit  of  a  tyrant,  and 
more  than  one  man,  six  times  as  clever,  and  ten  times  as 
hard-working  as  George,  had  gone  when  George  would  have 
stayed,  from  crossing  words  with  the  wind  miller.  The 
safety  of  the  priceless  sails,  if  all  were  true,  had  been  risked 
by  the  man  he  kept,  and  secured  by  the  man  he  sent  away, 
but  Master  Lake  was  quite  satisfied  with  his  own  decision. 

"I  bean't  so  found  myself  of  men  as  is  so  mortal  sprack 
and  fussy  in  a  strange  place,"  the  miller  observed  to  Mrs. 
Lake  in  reference  to  this  matter. 

Mrs.  Lake  had  picked  up  several  of  her  husband's  bits  of 
proverbial  wisdom,  which  she  often  flattered  him  by  retailing 
to  his  face. 

"  Too  hot  to  hold,  mostly,"  was  her  reply,  in  knowing 
tones. 

"Ay,  ay,  missus,  so  a  be,"  said  the  windmiller.  And  after 
a  while  he  added,  "  Gearge  is  slow,  sartinly,  mortal  slow; 
but  Gearge  is  sure." 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  POCKET-BOOK  AND  THE  FAMILY  BIBLE. FIVE  POUNDS' 

REWARD. 

Of  the  strange  gentleman  who  brought  Jan  to  the  wind- 
mill, the  Lakes  heard  no  more,  but  the  money  was  paid 
regularly  through  a  lawyer  in  London. 

From  this  lawyer,  indeed,  Master  Lake  had  heard  im- 
mediately after  the  arrival  of  his  foster-son. 


24  yAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

The  man  of  business  wrote  to  say  that  the  gentleman  who 
had  visited  the  mill  on  a  certain  night  had,  at  that  date,  lost 
a  pocket-book,  which  he  thought  might  have  been  picked  up 
at  the  mill.  It  contained  papers  only  valuable  to  the  owner, 
and  also  a  five-pound  note,  which  was  liberally  offered  to  the 
windmiller  if  he  could  find  the  book,  and  forward  it  at  once. 

Master  Lake  began  to  have  a  kind  of  reckless,  gambling 
sort  of  feeling  about  luck.  Here  would  be  an  easily  earned 
five  pounds,  if  he  could  but  have  the  luck  to  find  the  missing 
property !  That  ten  shillings  a  week  had  come  pretty 
easily  to  him.  When  all  is  said,  there  are  people  into  whose 
mouths  the  larks  fall  ready  cooked  ! 

The  windmiller  looked  inside  the  mill  and  outside  the  mill, 
and  wandered  a  long  way  along  the  chalky  road  with  his 
eyes  downwards,  but  he  was  no  nearer  to  the  five-pound 
note  for  his  pains.  Then  he  went  to  his  wife,  but  she  had 
seen  nothing  of  the  pocket-book ;  on  wdiich  her  husband 
somewhat  unreasonably  observed  that,  "  A  might  a  been 
zartin  thee  couldn't  help  un  !  " 

He  next  betook  himself  to  George,  who  was  slowly,  and 
it  is  to  be  hoped  surely,  sweeping  out  the  round-house. 

"  Gearge,  my  boy,"  said  the  windmiller,  in  not  too  anx- 
ious tones,  "  have  'ee  seen  a  pocket-book  lying  about  any- 
wheres ?  " 

George  leaned  upon  his  broom  with  one  hand,  and  with 
the  other  scratched  his  white  head. 

"What  be  a  pocket-book,  then,  Master  Lake?"  said  he, 
grinning,  as  if  at  his  own  ignorance. 

"  Thee's  eei'd  of  a  pocket-book  before  now,  thee  vool, 
sure-ly  !  "  said  the  impatient  windmiller. 

"  I'se  eerd  of  a  pocket  of  hops,  Master  Lake,"  said 
George,  after  an  irritating  pause,  during  which  he  still 
smiled,  and  scratched   his  poll  as  if  to  stimulate  recollection. 

"Book — book — book!  pocket-book/  "  shouted  the  miller. 
"  If  thee  can't  read,  thee  knows  what  a  book  is,  thee 
gawney !  " 

"  What  a  vool  I  be,  to  be  sure  !  "  said  George,  his  simple 
countenance  lighted  up  with  a  broader  smile  than  before. 
"  I  knows  a  book,  sartinly,  Master  Lake,  I  knows  a  book. 
There's  one,"  George  continued,  speaking  even  slower  than 
before, — "  there's  one  inzide,  sir, — a  big  un.     On  the  shelf 


Jan  of  the  windmill.  25 

it  be.  A  Vainly  Bible  they  calls  un.  And  I'm  sartin  sure 
it  be  there,"  he  concluded,  "lor  a  hasn't  been  moved  since 
the  last  time  you  christened,  Master  Lake." 

The  miller  turned  away,  biting  his  lip  hard,  to  repress  a 
useless  outburst  of  rage,  and  George,  still  smiling  sweetly, 
spun  the  broom  dexterously  between  his  hands,  as  a  man 
spins  the  water  out  of  a  stable  mop.  Just  before  Master 
Lake  had  got  beyond  earshot,  George  lowered  the  broom, 
and  began  to  scratch  his  head  once  more.  "  I  be  a  proper 
vool,  sartinly,"  said  he ;  and  when  the  miller  heard  this,  he 
turned  back.  "  Mother  alius  said  I'd  no  more- sense  in  my 
yead  than  a  dumbledore,"  George  candidly  confessed.  And 
by  a  dumbledore  he  meant  a  humble-bee.  "  It  do  take  me 
such  a  time  to  mind  anything,  sir." 

"  Well,  never  mind,  Gearge,"  said  the  miller ;  "  if  thee's 
slow,  thee's  sure.  What  do  'ee  remember  about  the  book, 
now,  Gearge  ?  A  don't  mind  giving  thee  five  shilling,  if 
thee  finds  un,  Gearge." 

"  A  had  un  down  at  the  burying,  I  'member  quite  well 
now,  sir.  To  put  the  little  un's  name  in  'twas.  I  thowt  a 
hadn't  been  down  zince  christening,  I  be  so  stoopid  sar- 
tinly." 

"  What  are  you  talking  about,  ye  vool  ? "  roared  the 
miller. 

"  The  book,  sir,  sartinly,"  said  George,  his  honest  face 
beaming  with  good-humor.  "  The  Vamly  Bible,  Master 
Lake." 

And  as  the  windmiller  went  off  muttering  something 
which  the  Family  Bible  would  by  no  means  have  sanctioned, 
George  returned  chuckling  to  a  leisurely  use  of  his  broom 
on  the  round-house  floor. 

Master  Lake  did  not  find  the  pocket-book,  and  after  a  day 
or  two  it  was  advertised  in  a  local  paper,  and  a  reward  of 
five  pounds  offered  for  it. 

George  Sannel  was  seated  one  evening  in  the  "  Heart  of 
Oak "  inn,  sipping  some  excellent  home-brewed  ale,  which 
had  been  warmed  up  for  his  consumption  in  a  curious  funnel- 
shaped  pipkin,  when  Ins  long  lop-ears  caught  a  remark  made 
by  the  inn-keeper,  who  was  reading  out  bits  from  the  local 
paper  to  a  small  audience,  unable  to  read  it  for  themselves. 

"  Five  pound  reward  !  "  he  read.      "  Lor  massv  !    There 


26  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

be  a  sum  to  be  easily  earned  by  a  sharp-eyed  chap  with  good 
luck  on  's  side." 

"  And  how  then,  Master  Chuter  ?  "  said  George,  pausing, 
with  the  steaming  mug  half-way  to  his  lips. 

"Haw,  haw!"  roared  the  inn-keeper:  "you  be  a  sharp- 
eyed  chap,  too!  Do  'ee  think  'twould  suit  thee,  Gearge? 
Thee's  a  sprack  chap,  sartinly,  Gearge !  " 

"  Haw,  haw,  haw !  "  roared  the  other  members  of  the 
company,  as  they  slowly  realized  Master  Chuter's  irony  at 
the  expense  of  the  "  voolish  "  Gearge. 

George  took  their  rough  banter  in  excellent  part.  He 
sipped  his  beer,  and  grinned  like  a  cat  at  his  own  expense. 
But  after  the  guffaws  had  subsided,  he  said,  "Thee  's  not 
told  un  about  that  five  pound  yet,  Master  Chuter." 

The  curiosity  of  the  company  was  by  this  time  aroused, 
and  Master  Chuter  explained  :  "  'Tis  a  gentleman  by  the 
rame  of  Ford  as  is  advertising  for  a  pocket-book,  a  seems  to 
have  lost  on  the  downs,  near  to  Master  Lake's  windmill. 
'lis  thy  way,  too,  Gearge,  after  all.  Thee  must  get  up 
yarly,  Gearge.  'Tis  the  yarly  bird  catches  the  worm.  And 
tell  Master  Lake  from  me,  '11  bave  all  the  young  varments 
in  the  place  a  driving  their  pigs  up  to  his  mill,  to  look  for 
the  pocket-book,  while  they  makes  believe  to  be  minding 
their  pigs." 

"Tis  likely,  too,"  said  George.  And  the  two  or  three 
very  aged  laborers  in  smocks,  and  one  other  lubberly  boy, 
who  composed  the  rest  of  the  circle,  added,  severally  and 
collectively,  "  'Tis  likely,  too." 

But,  as  George  beat  his  way  home  over  the  downs  in  the 
dusk,  he  said  aloud,  under  cover  of  the  roaring  wind,  and  in 
all  the  security  of  the  open  country, — 

"  Vive  pound  !  vive  pound !  And  a  offered  me  vive  shil- 
ling for  un.  Master  Lake,  you  be  dog-ged  cute  ;  but  Gearge 
bean't  quite  such  a  vool  as  a  looks." 

After  a  short  time  the  advertisement  was  withdrawn. 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  27 


CHAPTER  VI. 

GEORGE  GOES  COURTING GEORGE  AS  AN  ENEMY. GEORGE 

AS   A  FRIEND. ABEL  PLAYS   SCHOOLMASTER THE  LOVE- 
LETTER MOERDYK THE  MILLER-MOTH AN    ANCIENT 

DITTY. 

One  day  George  Sannel  asked  and  obtained  leave  for  a 
holiday. 

On  the  morning  in  question,  he  dressed  himself  in  the 
cleanest  of  smocks,  greased  his  boots,  stuck  a  bloody  warrior, 
or  dark-colored  wallflower,  in  his  bosom,  put  a  neatly  folded, 
clean  cotton  handkerchief  into  his  pocket, — which,  even  if 
he  did  not  use  it,  was  a  piece  of  striking  dandyism, — and 
scrubbed  his  honest  face  to  such  a  point  of  cleanliness  that 
Mrs.  Lake  was  almost  constrained  to  remark  that  she  thought 
he  must  be  going  courting. 

George  did  not  blush, — he  never  blushed, — but  he  looked 
"  voolish  "  enough  to  warrant  the  suspicion  that  his  errand 
was  a  tender  one,  and  he  had  no  other  reason  to  give  for  his 
spruce  appearance. 

It  was,  perhaps,  in  his  confusion  that  he  managed  to  con- 
vey a  mistaken  notion  of  the  place  to  which  he  was  going  to 
Mrs.  Lake.  She  was  under  the  impression  that  he  went  to 
the  neighboring  town,  whereas  he  went  to  one  in  an  exactly 
opposite  direction,  and  some  miles  farther  away. 

He  went  to  the  bank,  too,  which  seems  an  unlikely  place 
for  tender  tryst ;  but  George's  proceedings  were  apt  to  be 
less  direct  than  the  simplicity  of  his  looks  and  speech  would 
have  led  a  stranger  to  suppose.  When  he  reached  home,  the 
windiniller  and  his  family  were  going  to  bed,  for  the  night 
was  still,  and  the  mill  idle.  George  betook  himself  at  once 
to  where  his  truckle-bed  stood  in  the  round-house,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  light  his  mill-candlestick,  which  was  stuck  into  the 
wall. 

From  the  chink  into  which  it  was  stuck  he  then  counted 
seven  bricks  downwards,  and  the  seventh  yielded  to  a  slight 
effort  and  came  out.  It  was  the  door,  so  to  speak,  of  a  hole 
in  the  wall  of  the  mill,  from  which  he  drew  a  morocco-bound 
pocket-book.     After  an  uneasy  glance  over  his  shoulder,  to 


28  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

make  sure  that  the  long  dark  shadow  which  stretched  from 
his  own  heels,  and  shifted  with  the  draught  in  which  the 
candle  flared,  was  not  the  windmiller  creeping  up  behind  him, 
he  took  a  letter  out  of  the  book  and  held  it  to  the  light  as  if 
to  read  it.  But  he  never  turned  the  page,  and  at  last  replaced 
it  with  a  sigh.  Then  he  put  the  pocket-book  back  into  ihe 
hole,  and  pushed  in  after  it  his  handkerchief,  which  was  tied 
round  something  which  chinked  as  he  pressed  it  in.  Then 
he  replaced  the  brick,  and  went  to  bed.  He  said  nothing  about 
the  bank  in  the  morning  nor  about  the  hole  in  the  mill-wall ; 
and  he  parried  Mrs.  Lake's  questions  with  gawky  grins  and 
well-assumed  basbfulness. 

Abel  overheard  his  mother's  jokes  on  the  subject  of 
"  Gearge's  young  'ooman,"  and  they  recurred  to  him  when 
he  and  George  formed  a  curious  alliance,  which  demands  ex- 
planation. 

It  was  not  solely  because  the  windmiller  looked  favorably 
upon  the  little  Jan  that  he  and  Abel  were  now  allowed  to 
wander  in  the  business  parts  of  the  windmill,  when  they 
could  not  be  out  of  doors,  to  an  extent  never  before  permitted 
to  the  children.  Part  of  the  change  was  due  to  a  change  in 
the  miller's  man. 

However  childlike  in  some  respects  himself,  George  was 
not  fond  of  children,  and  he  had  hitherto  seemed  to  have  a 
particular  spite  against  Abel.  He,  quite  as  often  as  the 
miller,  would  drive  the  boy  from  the  round-house,  and  thwart 
his  fancy  for  climbing  the  ladders  to  see  the  processes  of  the 
different  floors. 

Abel  would  have  been  happy  for  hours  together  watching 
the  great  stones  grind,  or  the  corn  poured  by  golden  showers 
into  the  hopper  on  its  way  to  the  stones  below.  Many  a 
time  had  he  crept  up  and  hidden  himself  behind  a  sack  ;  but 
George  seemed  to  have  an  impish  ingenuity  in  discovering 
his  hiding-places,  and  would  drive  him  out  as  a  dog  worries 
a  cat,  crying,  "  Come  out,  thee  little  varment !  Master  Lake 
he  don't  allow  thee  hereabouts." 

The  cleverness  of  the  miller's  man  in  discovering  poor 
Abel's  retreats  probably  arose  from  the  fact  that  he  had  so 
rooted  a  dislike  for  the  routine  work  of 'his  daily  duties  that 
he  would  rather  employ  himself  about  the  mill  in  any  way 
than  by  attending  to  the  mill-business,  and  that  his  idleness 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  29 

and  stupidity  over  work  were  only  equalled  by  his  industry 
and  shrewdness  in  mischief. 

Poor  Abel  had  a  dread  of  the  great,  gawky,  mischievous- 
looking  man,  which  probably  prevented  his  complaining  to  his 
mother  of  many  a  sly  pinch  and  buffet  which  he  endured  from 
him.  And  George  took  some  pains  to  keep  up  this  whole- 
some awe  of  himself,  by  vague  and  terrifying  speeches,  and 
by  a  trick  of  what  he  called  "  dropping  on  "  poor  Abel  in  the 
dusk,  with  hideous  grimaces  and  uncouth  sounds. 

He  once  came  thus  upon  Abel  in  an  upper  floor,  and  the 
boy  fled  from  him  so  hastily  that  he  caught  his  foot  in  the 
ladder  and  fell  headlong.  Though  it  must  have  been  quite 
uncertain  for  some  moments  whether  Abel  had  not  broken  his 
neck,  the  miller's  man  displayed  no  anxiety.  He  only  clapped 
his  hands  upon  his  knees,  in  a  sort  of  uncouth  ecstasy  of 
spite,  saying,  "  Down  a  comes  vlump,  like  a  twoad  from 
roost.     Haw,  haw,  haw  !  " 

Happily,  Abel  fell  with  little  more  damage  to  himself  than 
the  mill-cats  experienced  in  many  such  a  tumble,  as  they  fled 
before  the  tormenting  George. 

But,  after  all  this,  it  was  with  no  small  surprise  that  Abel 
found  himself  the  object  of  attentions  from  the  miller's  man, 
which  bore  the  look  of  friendliness. 

At  first,  when  George  made  civil  speeches,  and  invited  Abel 
to  "  see  the  stwones  a-grinding,"  he  only  felt  an  additional 
terror,  being  convinced  that  mischief  was  meant  in  reality. 
But,  when  days  and  weeks  west  by,  and  he  wandered  un- 
molested from  floor  to  floor,  with  many  a  kindly  word  from 
George,  and  not  a  single  cuff  or  nip,  the  sweet-tempered 
Abel  began  to  feel  gratitude,  and  almost  an  affection,  for  his 
quondam  tormentor. 

George,  for  his  part,  had  hitherto  done  some  violence  to 
his  own  feelings  by  his  constant  refusal  to  allow  Abel  to  help 
him  to  sweep  the  mill  or  couple  the  sacks  for  lifting.  He 
would  have  been  only  too  glad  to  put  some  of  his  own  work 
on  the  shoulders  of  another,  had  it  not  been  for  the  vexatious 
thought  that  he  would  be  giving  pleasure  by  so  doing  where 
he  only  wanted  to  annoy.  And  in  his  very  unamiable  dis- 
position malice  was  a  stronger  quality  even  than  idleness. 

But  now,  when  for  some  reason  best  known  to  himself,  he 
brisked  to  win  Abel's  regard,  it  was  a  slight  j-ecoinpense  t9 


3©  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

him  for  restraining  his  love  of  tormenting  that  he  got  a  good 
deal  of  work  out  of  Abel  at  odd  moments  when  the  miller 
was  away.  So  well  did  he  manage  this,  that  a  marked  im- 
provement in  the  tidiness  of  the  round-house  drew  some 
praise  from  his  master. 

"  Thee'll  be  a  spvack  man  yet,  Gearge,"  said  the  windmil- 
ler,  encouragingly.  "  Thee  takes  the  broom  into  the  corners 
now." 

"  So  I  do,"  said  George,  unblushingly,  "  so  I  do.  But  lor, 
Master  Lake,  what  a  man  you  be  to  notice  un  ! " 

George's  kinder  demeanor  towards  Abel  began  shortly  after 
the  coming  of  the  little  Jan,  and  George  himself  accounted 
for  it  in  the  following  manner  : — 

"  You  do  be  kind  to  me  now,  Gearge,"  said  Abel,  grate- 
fully, as  he  stood  one  day,  with  the  baby  in  his  arms,  watch- 
ing the  miller's  man  emptying  a  sack  of  grain  into  the  hopper. 

"  I  likes  to  see  thee  with  that  babby,  Abel,"  said  George, 
pausing  in  his  work.  "  Thee  's  a  good  boy,  Abel,  and  care- 
ful.    I  likes  to  do  any  thing  for  thee,  Abel." 

"  I  wish  I  could  do  any  thing  for  thee,  Gearge,"  said  Abel  ; 
"but  I  be  too  small  to  help  the  likes  of  you,  Gearge." 

"If  you  're  small,  you  're  sprack,"  said  the  miller's  man. 
"  Thee  's  a  good  scholar,  too,  Abel.  I'll  be  bound  thee  can 
read,  now  ?  And  a  poor  gawney  like  I  doesn't  know  5s 
letters." 

"I  can  read  a  bit,  Gearge,"  said  Abel,  with  pride;  "but 
I've  been  at  home  a  goodish  while :  but  mother  says  she  '11 
send  I  to  school  again  in  spring,  if  the  little  un  gets  on  well 
and  walks." 

"I  wish  I  could  read,"  said  George,  mournfully ;  "but 
time's  past  for  me  to  go  to  school,  Abel  ;  and  who'd  teach 
a  great  lummakin  vool  like  I  his  letters  ?  " 

"  I  would,  Gearge,  I  would ! "  cried  Abel,  his  eyes  spark- 
ling with  earnestness.  "  I  can  teach  thee  thy  letters,  and  by 
the  time  thee's  learned  all  I  know,  maybe  Til  have  been  to 
school  again,  and  learned  some  more." 

This  was  the  foundation  of  a  curious  kind  of  friendship 
between  Abel  and  the  miller's  man. 

On  the  same  shelf  with  the  "  Vainly  Bible,"  before  al- 
luded to,  was  a  real  old  horn-book,  which  had  belonged 
tO  the   windmiller's  grandmother.     It'  w&s  simply  q  ?tiee$ 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  3* 

on  which  the  letters  of  the  alphabet,  and  some  few  words 
of  one  syllable,  were  printed,  and  it  was  protected  in  its 
frame  by  a  transparent  front  of  thin  horn,  through  which 
the  letters  could  be  read,  just  as  one  sees  the  prints  through 
tlie  ground-glass  of  "  drawing  slates." 

From  this  horn-book  Abel  labored  patiently  in  teaching 
George  his  letters.  It  was  no  light  task.  George  had  all 
the  cunning  and  shrewdness  with  which  he  credited  him- 
self; but  a  denser  head  for  any  intellectual  effort  could 
hardly  have  been  found  for  the  seeking.  Still  they  strug- 
gled on,  and  as  George  went  about  the  mill  he  might  have 
been  heard  muttering, — 

"A  B  C  G.  No!  Cuss  me  for  a  vool!  A  B  C  D. 
Why  didn't  they  whop  my  letters  into  I  when  a  was  a  boy  ? 
ABC  " — and  so  persevering  with  an  industry  which  he 
commonly  kept  for  works  of  mischief. 

One  evening  he  brought  home  a  newspaper  from  the 
Heart  of  Oak,  and  when  Mrs.  Lake  had  taken  the  baby, 
he  persuaded  Abel  to  come  into  the  round-house  and  give 
him  a  lesson.  Abel  could  read  so  much  of  it  that  George 
was  quite  overwhelmed  by  his  learning. 

"Thee  be's  mortal  lamed,  Abel,  sartinly.  But  I'll  never 
read  like  thee,"  he  added,  despairingly.  "  Drattle  th'  old 
witch,  why  didn't  she  give  I  some  schooling?"  He  spoke 
with  spiteful  emphasis,  and  Abel,  too  well  used  to  his  rough 
language  to  notice  the  uncivil  reference  to  his  mother,  said 
with  some  compassion, — ■ 

"  Were  you  never  sent  to  school  then,  Gearge?" 

"  They  should  ha'  kept  me  there,"  said  George,  self-defen- 
sively.  "  I  played  moodier,"  he  continued, — by  which  he 
meant  truant, — "  and  then  they  whopped  I,  and  a  went  home 
to  mother,  and  she  kept  un  at  home,  the  old  vool !  " 

"  Well,  Gearge,  thee  must  work  hard,  and  I'll  teach  thee, 
Gearge,  I'll  teach  thee!"  said  little  Abel,  proudly.  "  And 
by-and-by,  Gearge,  we'll  get  a  slate,  and  I'll  teach  thee  to 
write  too,  Gearge,  that  I  will !  " 

George's  small  eyes  gave  a  slight  squint,  as  they  were 
apt  to  do  when  he'was  thinking  profoundly. 

"Abel,"  said  he,  "  can  thee  retd  writing,  my  boy  ?  " 

"I  think  I  could,  Gearge,"  said  Abel,  "if  'twas  pretty 
plain," 


3*  Jan  of  the  windmill. 

"  Abel,  my  boy,"  said  George,  after  a  pause,  with  a 
broad  sweet  smile  upon  his  "  voolish"  face,  "  go  to  the  door 
and  see  if  the  wind  be  rising  at  all ;  us  mustn't  forget  th' 
old  mill,  Abel,  with  us  laming.     Sartinly  not,  Abel,  mun." 

Proud  of  the  implied  partnership  in  the  care  of  the  mill, 
Abel  hastened  to  the  outer  door.  As  he  passed  the  inner 
one,  leading  into  the  dwelling-room,  he  could  hear  his 
mother  crooning  a  strange,  drony,  old  local  ditty,  as  she  put 
the  little  Jan  to  sleep.  As  Abel  went  out,  she  was  singing 
the  first  verse  : — 

"The  swallow  twitters  on  the  barn, 
The  rook  is  cawing  on  the  tree, 
And  in  the  wood  the  ringdove  coos, 
But  my  false  love  hath  fled  from  me." 

Abel  opened  the  door,  and  looked  out.  One  of  those 
small  white  motlis  known  as "  millers "  went  past  him. 
The  night  was  still, — so  utterly  still  that  no  sound  of  any 
sort  whatever  broke  upon  the  ear.  In  dead  silence  and 
loneliness  stood  the  mill.  Even  the  miller-moth  had  gone  ; 
and  a  cat  ran  in  by  Abel's  legs,  as  if  the  loneliness  without 
were  too  much  for  her.     The  sky  was  gray. 

Abel  went  back  to  the  round-house,  where  George  was 
struggling  to  fix  the  candlestick  securely  in  the  wall. 

*'  Cuss  the  thing!"  he  exclaimed,  whilst  the  skin  of  his 
face  took  a  mottled  hue  that  was  the  nearest  approach  he 
ever  made  to  a  blush.  "  The  tallow've  beer,  a  dropping, 
Abel,  my  boy.  I  think  'twas  the  wind  when  you  opened 
the  door,  maybe.  And  I've  been  a  trying  to  fix  un  more 
firmly.     That's  all,  Abel ;  that's  all." 

'■'  There  ain't  no  signs  of  wind,"  said  Abel.  "  It's  main 
quiet  and  unked  too  outside,  Gearge.  And  I  do  think  it  be 
like  rain.  There  was  a  miller-moth,  Gearge;  do  that  mean 
anything  ?  "  •  - ; 

"  I  can't  say,"  said  George.  "  I  bean't  weatherwise  my- 
self, Abel.  But  if  there  be  no  wind,  there  be  no  work, 
Abel ;  so  us  may  go  back  to  our  laming.  Look  here,  my 
boy,"  he  added,  as  Abel  reseated  himself  on  the  grain-sack 
which  did  duty  as  chair  of  instruction,  and  drawing,  as  he 
spoke,  a  letter  forth  to  the  light ;  "  come  to  the  candle, 
Abel,  and  see  if  so  be  thee  can  read  this,  but  don't  tell  any 
one  I  showed  it  thee,  Abel." 


JAN  OF  TH£  WINDMILL.  33 

"Not  me,  Gearge,"  said  Abel,  warmly;  and  he  added. — 
"  Be  it  from  thy  young  '00111  an,  Gearge  ?  " 

No  rustic  swain  ever  simpered  more  consciously  or 
looked  more  foolish  than  George  under  this  accusation,  as 
he  said,  "Be  quiet,  Abel,  do  'ee." 

"  She  be  a  good  scholar,  too  !  "  said  Abel,  looking  admir- 
ingly at  the  closely  written  sheet. 

George  could  hardly  disguise  the  sudden  look  of  fury  in 
his  face,  but  he  hastily  covered  up  the  letter  with  his  hands 
in  such  a  manner  as  only  to  leave  the  first  word  on  the  page 
visible.  There  was  a  deeply  cunning  reason  for  this  clever 
manoeuvre.  George  held  himself  to  be  pretty  "  cute,"  and  he 
reckoned  that,  by  only  showing  one  word  at  a  time,  he  could 
effectually  prevent  any  attempt  on  Abel's  part  to  read  the 
letter  himself  without  giving  its  contents  to  George. 
Like  many  other  cunning  people,  George  overreached  him- 
self. The  first  word  was  beyond  Abel's  powers,  though  he 
might  possibly  have  satisfied  George's  curiosity  on  one  essen- 
tial point,  by  deciphering  a  name  or  two  farther  on.  But 
the  clever  George  concluded  that  he  had  boasted  beyond  his 
ability,  so  he  put  the  letter  away. 

Abel  tried  hard  at  the  one  word  which  George  exhibited, 
and  gazed  silently  at  it  for  some  time  with  a  puzzled  face. 

"Spell  it,  mun,  spell  it!  "cried  the  miller's  man,  impa- 
tiently. It  was  a  process  which  he  had  seen  to  succeed, 
when  a  long  word  had  puzzled  his  teacher  in  the  newspaper, 
before  now. 

"M  O  E  R,  mower;  D  Y  K,  dik,"  said  Abel.  But  he 
looked  none  the  wiser  for  the  effort. 

"  Mower  dik  !  Wliab  be  that  ?  "  said  George,  peering  at 
the  word.     "  Do  'ee  think  it  be  Mower  dik,  Abel?" 

"  I  be  sure,"  said  Abel. 

"Or  do  'ee  think  'tis  l  My  dear  Dick'?"  suggested 
George,  anxiously,  and  with  a  sort  of  triumph  in  his  tone, 
as  if  that  were  quite  what  he  expected. 

"No,  no.  'Tis  an  O,  Gearge,  that  second  letter.  Be- 
side, 'twould  have  been  My  dear  Gearge  to  thee,  thou 
knows." 

Again  the  look  with  which  the  miller's  man  favored  Abel 
was  far  from  pleasant.  But  he  controlled  his  voice  to  its 
3 


34  Jan  of  the  windmill. 

ordinary  drawl  (always  a  little  slower  and  more  simple 
sounding,  when  lie  specially  meant  mischief). 

"  So  'twould,  Abel.  So  'twould.  What  a  vool  I  be,  to 
be  sure !  But  give  it  to  I  now.  We'll  look  at  it  another 
time,  Abel." 

"I  be  very  sorry,  Gearge,"  said  Abel,  who  had  a  con- 
sciousness that  the  miller's  man  was  ill-pleased  in  spite  of 
his  civility.  "It  be  so  long  since  I  was  at  school,  and  it  be 
such  a  queer  word.  Do'ee  think  she  can  have  spelt  un 
wrong,  Gearge?  " 

"'lis  likely  she  have,"  said  George,  regaining  his  com- 
posure. 

"  Abel !  Abel !  Abel !  "  cried  the  mother  from  the 
dwelling-room.     "  Come  to  thee  bed,  child  !  " 

"  Good-i light,  Gearge.  I'm  main  sorry  to  be  so  stupid, 
Gearge,"  said  Abel,  and  off  he  ran. 

Mrs.  Lake  was  walking  up  and  down,  rocking  the  little 
Jan  in  her  arms,  who  was  wailing  fretfully. 

"I  be  puzzled  to  know  what  ails  un,"  said  Mrs.  Lake,  in 
.answer  to  Abel's  questions.  "  He  be  quite  in  a  way  to- 
night.    But  get  thee  to  bed,  Abel." 

And  though  Abel  begged  hard  to  be  allowed  to  try  his 
powers  of  soothing  with  the  little  Jan,  Mrs.  Lake  insisted 
upon  keeping  the  baby  herself;  and  Abel  undressed,  and 
crept  into  the  press-bed.  He  fell  asleep  in  spite  of  a  some- 
what disturbed  mind.  That  mysterious  word  and  George's 
evident  displeasure  worried  him,  and  he  was  troubled  also 
by  the  unusual  fretfulness  of  little  Jan,  and  the  sound  of 
sorrow  in  his  baby  wail.  His  last  waking  thoughts  were  a 
strange  mixture,  passing  into  stranger  dreams. 

The  word  Moerdyk  danced  before  his  eyes,  but  brought 
no  meaning  with  it.  Jan's  cries  troubled  him,  and  with  both 
there  blended  the  droning  of  the  ancient  plaintive  ditty, 
which  the  foster-mother  sang  over  and  over  again  as  she 
rocked  the  child  in  her  arms.  That  wail  of  the  baby's  must 
have  in  some  strange  manner  recalled  the  first  night  of  his 
arrival,  when  Abel  found  him  wailing  on  the  bed.  For  the 
fierce  eyes  of  the  strange  gentleman  haunted  Abel's  dreams, 
but  in  the  face  of  the  miller's  man. 

The  poor  boy  dreamed  horribly  of  being  "  dropped  on" 
by  George,  with  fierce  back  eyes  added  to  the  terrors  of  his 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  3$ 

uncouth  grimaces.  He  seemed  to  himself  to  fly  blindly  and 
vainly  through  the  mill  from  his  tormentor,  till  George  was 
driven  from  his  thoughts  by  his  coming  suddenly  upon  the 
little  Jan,  wailing  as  he  really  did  wail,  round  whose  head 
a  miller-moth  was  sailing  slowly,  and  singing  in  a  human 
voice : — 

"The  swallow  twitters  on  the  barn, 
The  rook  is  cawing  on  the  tree, 
And  in  the  wood  the  ringdove  coos, 
But  my  false  love  hath  fled  from  me. 

Like  tiny  pipe  of  wheaten  straw, 
The  wren  his  little  note  doth  swell, 
And  every  living  thing  that  flies, 
Of  his  true  love  doth  fondly  tell. 

But  I  alone  am  left  to  pine, 
And  sit  beneath  the  withy  tree, 
For  truth  and  honesty  be  gone, 
And  my  false  love  hath  fled  from  me." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

ABEL      GOES      TO     SCHOOL      AGAIN. DAME     DATCHETT A 

COLUMN      OF    SPELLING ABEL    PLAYS     MOOCHER. — THE 

MILLER'S    MAN    CANNOT    MAKE    UP    HIS    MIND. 

Abel  went  to  school  again  in  the  spring,  and,  though 
George  would  have  been  better  pleased  had  he  forgotten  the 
whole  affair,  he  remembered  the  word  in  George's  young 
woman's  love-letter  which  had  puzzled  him ;  and  never  was 
a  spelling-lesson  set  him  among  the  M's  that  he  did  not 
hope  to  come  across  it  and  to  be  able  to  demand  the  mean- 
ing of  Moerdyk  from  his  Dame. 

Without  the  excuse  of  its  coming  in  the  column  of  spell- 
ing set  by  herself,  Abel  dared  not  ask  her  to  solve  his  puz- 
zle ;  for  never  did  teacher  more  warmly  resent  questions 
which  she  was  unable  to  answer  than  Dame  Datchett. 

Abel  could  not  fully  make  up  his  mind  whether  it  should 
be  looked  up  among  two-syllable  or  three-syllable  words. 
He  decided  for  the  former,  and  one  day  brought  his  spelling- 
book  to  George  in  the  round-house, 

"I've   been   a  looking  for  th^t  yere  word,  Gearge/'  said. 


36  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

he.  "  There's  lots  of  Mo's,  but  it  bean't  among  'em.  Hera 
they  be.  Words  of  two  syllables ;  M,  Ma,  Me,  Mi ;  here 
they  be,  Mo."  And  Abel  began  to  rattle  off  the  familiar 
column  at  a  good  rate,  George  looking  earnestly  over  his 
shoulder,  and  following  the  boy's  finger  as  it  moved  rapidly 
down  the  page.  "Mocking,  Modern,  Mohawk,  Molar, 
Molly,  Moment,  Money,  Moping,  Moral,  Mortal,  Moses, 
Molive,  Movement." 

"Stop  a  bit,  mun,"  cried  George;  "what  do  all  they 
words  mean?     They  bothers  me." 

"I  knows  some  of  'em,"  said  Abel,  "and  I  asked  Dame 
Datchett  about  the  others,  but  she  do  be  so  cross ;  audi 
thinks  some  of  'em  bothered  she  too.  There's  mucking.  I 
knows  that.  'What's  a  modern,  Dame?'  says  L  'A  mud- 
dle-headed fellow  the  likes  of  you,'  says  she.  'What  s  a 
mohawk,  Dame?'  says  I.  'It's  what  you'll  come  to  before 
long,  ye  young  hang-gallus,'  says  she.  I  was  feared  on  her, 
Gearge,  I  can  tell  'ee ;  but  I  tried  my  luck  again.  'What's 
a  molar,  Dame  ? '  says  I.  '  'Tis  a  wus  word  than  t'other/ 
says  she;  'and,  if  'ee  axes  me  any  more  voolish  questions, 
I'll  break  thee  yead  for  'ee.'  Do  'ee  think  'tis  a  very  bad 
word,  Gearge?"  added  Abel,  with  a  rather  indefensible 
curiosity. 

"  I  never  heard  un,"  said  George.  And  this  was  perhaps 
decisive  against  the  Dame's  statement.  "  And  I  don't 
believe  un  neither.  I  think  it  bothered  she.  I  believe  'tis 
a  genteel  word  for  a  man  as  catches  oonts.  They  call  oonts 
moles  in  some  parts,  so  p'r'aps  they  calls  a  man  as  catches 
moles  a  molar,  as  they  calls  a  man  as  drives  a  mill  a  miller." 

"'Tis  likely  too,  Gearge,"  said  Abel. 

"  Well !  Molly  we  knows.  And  moment,  and  moping, 
and  moral." 

"What's  moral?"  inquired  George. 

"  'Tis  what  they  put  at  the  end  of  Vables,  Gearge. 
There's  Yables  at  the  end  of  the  spelling-book,  and  I've 
read  un  all.     There's  the  Wolf  and  the  Lamb,  and" — 

"  I  knows  now,"  said  George.  "  'Tis  like  the  last  verse 
of  that  song  about  the  Harnet  and  the  Bittle.  Go  on, 
Abel." 

"  Mortal.  That's  swearing.  Moses.  That's  in  the 
Bible,  Gearge,     Motive,     J  thought   I'd  try  un  just   ones 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  37 

more.  'What's  a  motive,  Dame?'  says  I.  'I've  got  un 
here,  says  she,  quite  quiet-like.  But  I  seed  her  feeling 
under's  chair,  and  I  know'd  'twas  for  the  strap,  and  I  ran 
straight  off,  spelling-book  and  all,  Gearge." 

"So  thee've  been  playing  moocher,  eh?"  said  George, 
with  an  unpleasant  twinkle  in  his  eyes.  "  What'll  Master 
Lake  say  to  that  ?  " 

"  Don't  'ee  tell  un,  Gearge  !  "  Abel  implored  ;  "  and,  O 
Gearge !  let  I  tell  mother  about  the  word.  Maybe  she've 
heard  tell  of  it.  Let  I  show  her  the  letter,  Gearge.  She'll 
read  it  for  'ee.     She's  a  scholard,  is  mother." 

There  was  no  mistaking  now  the  wrath  in  George's  face. 
The  fury  that  is  fed  by  fear  blazes  pretty  strongly  at  all 
times. 

"  Look  'ee,  Abel,  my  boy,"  said  he,  pinching  Abel's  shoul- 
der till  he  turned  red  and  white  with  pain.  "If  thee  ever 
speaks  of  that  letter  and  that  word  to  any  mortal  soul,  I'll 
tell  Master  Lake  thee  plays  moocher,  and  I'll  half  kill  thee 
myself.  Thee  shall  rue  the  day  ever  thee  was  born  !  "  he 
added,  almost  beside  himself  with  rage  and  terror.  And  as, 
after  a  few  propitiating  words,  Abel  fled  from  the  mill, 
George  ground  his  hands  together  and  muttered,  "  Motive ! 
I  wish  the  old  witch  had  motived  every  bone  in  thee  body, 
or  let  me  do  't !  " 

Master  George  Sannel  was  indeed  a  little  irritable  at  this 
stage  of  his  career.  Like  the  miller,  he  had  had  one  stroke 
of  good  luck,  but  capricious  fortune  would  not  follow  up  the 
blow. 

He  had  made  five  pounds  pretty  easily.  But  how  to  turn 
some  other  property  of  which  he  had  become  possessed  to 
profit  for  himself  was,  after  months  of  waiting,  a  puzzle 
still. 

He  was  well  aware  that  his  own  want  of  education  was 
the  great  hindrance  to  his  discovering  for  himself  the  exact 
worth  of  what  he  had  got.  And  to  his  suspicious  nature  the 
idea  of  letting  any  one  else  into  his  secret,  even  to  gain 
help,  was  quite  intolerable. 

Abel  seemed  to  be  no  nearer  even  to  the  one  word  that 
George  had  showed  him,  after  weeks  of  "  schooling,"  and 
George   himself  progressed   so   slowly  in   learning  to  read 


38  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

that  he  was  at  times  tempted  to  give  up  the  effort  in  des. 
pair. 

Of  his  late  outburst  against  Abel  he  afterwards  repented, 
as  impolitic,  and  was  soon  good  friends  again  with  his  very 
placable  teacher. 

Much  of  the  time  when  he  should  have  been  at  work  did 
George  spend  in  "  puzzling"  over  his  position.  Sometimes, 
as  from  an  upper  window  of  the  mill  he  saw  the  little  Jan  in 
Abel's  arms,  he  would  mutter, — 

[l  If  a  body  were  to  kidnap  un,  would  they  advertise  he, 
I  wonders  ?"  and  after  some  consideration  would  shake  his 
white  head  doubtfully,  saying,  '•  No  they  wants  to  get  rid  of 
un,  or  they  wouldn't  have  brought  un  here." 

Happily  for  poor  little  Jan,  the  unscrupulous  rustic  rejec- 
ted the  next  idea  which  came  to  him  as  too  doubtful  of 
success, 

"  I  wonder  if  they'd  come  down  something  handsome  to 
them  as  could  tell  'em  the  young  varmint  was  off  their 
hands  for  good  and  all.  'Twould  save  un  ten  shilling  a 
Week.  Ten  shilling  a  week  !  I  heard  un  with  my  owrn  ears. 
I'd  a  kep'  un  for  five,  if  they'd  asked  me.  I  wonders  now. 
Little  uns  like  that  does  get  stole  by  gipsies  sometimes. 
Varmer  Smith's  son  were,  and  never  heard  on  again.  They 
falls  into  a  mill-race  too  sometimes.  They  be  so  venture- 
some. But  I  doubt  'twouldn't  do.  Them  as  it  belongs  to 
might  be  glad  enough  to  get  rid  of  un,  and  save  their  credit 
and  their  money  too  by  turning  upon  I  after  all." 

The  miller's  man  puzzled  himself  in  vain.  He  could 
think  of  no  mode  of  action  at  once  safe  and  certain  of  suc- 
cess. He  did  not  even  know  whether  what  he  possessed  had 
any  value,  or  how  or  where  to  make  use  of  it.  But  a  sort  of 
dim  hope  of  seeing  his  way  yet  kept  him  about  the  mill,  and 
he  persevered  in  the  effort  to  learn  to  read,  and  kept  his  big 
ears  open  for  any  thing  that  might  drop  from  the  miller  or 
his  wife  to  throw  light  on  the  history  of  Jan,  with  whom  his 
hopes  were  bound  up. 

Meanwhile,  with  a  dogged  patience,  he  bided  his  time. 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  39 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

VISITORS    AT    THE    MILL A    WINDMIIXER     OF     THE    THIRD 

GENERATION CURE  FOR  WHOOPING-COUGH MISS  AMA- 
BEL   ADELINE    AMMABY. DOCTORS    DISAGREE. 

One  of  the  earliest  of  Jan's  remembrances — of  those  re- 
membrances, I  mean,  which  remained  with  him  when  child- 
hood was  past — was  of  little  Miss  Amabel,  from  the  Grange, 
being  held  in  the  hopper  of  the  windmill  for  whooping-cough. 

Jan  was  between  three  and  four  years  old  at  this  time, 
the  idol  of  his  foster-mother,  and  a  great  favorite  with  his 
adopted  brothers  and  sisters.  A  quaint  little  fellow  he  was, 
with  a  broad,  intellectual-looking  face,  serious  to  old-fashion- 
edness,  very  fair,  and  with  eyes  "  like  slans." 

He  was  standing  one  morning  at  Mrs.  Lake's  apron -string, 
his  arms  clasped  lovingly,  but  somewhat  too  tightly,  round 
the  waist  of  a  sandy  kitten,  who  submitted  with  wonderful 
good-humor  to  the  well-meant  strangulation,  his  black  eyes 
intently  fixed  upon  the  dumplings  which  his  foster-mother 
was  dexterously  rolling  together,  when  a  strange  footstep 
was  heard  shuffling  uncertainly  about  on  the  floor  of  the 
round-house  just  outside  the  dwelling-room  door.  Mrs.  Lake 
did  not  disturb  herself.  Country  folk  were  constantly  com- 
ing with  their  bags  of  grist,  and  both  George  and  the  miller 
were  at  hand,  for  a  nice  breeze  was  blowing,  and  the  mill 
ground  merrily. 

After  a  few  seconds,  however,  came  a  modest  knock  on 
the  room-door,  and  Mrs.  Lake,  wiping  her  hands,  proceeded 
to  admit  the  knocker.  She  was  a  smartly  dressed  woman, 
who  bore  such  a  mass  of  laces  and  finery,  with  a  white 
woolen  shawl  spread  over  it,  apparently  with  the  purpose  of 
smothering  any  living  thing  there  might  chance  to  be 
beneath,  as,  in  Mrs.  Lake's  experienced  eyes,  could  be  noth- 
ing less  than  a  baby  of  the  most  genteel  order. 

The  manners  of  the  nurse  were  most  genteel  also,  and 
might  have  quite  overpowered  Mrs.  Lake,  but  that  the 
windmiller's  wife  had  in  her  youth  been  in  good  service  her- 
self, and,  though  an  early  marriage  had  prevented  her  from 


40  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

rising  beyond  the  post  of  nursemaid,  she  was  fairly  familiar 
with  the  etiquette  of  the  nursery  and  of  the  servants'  hall. 

"  Good  morning,  ma'am,"  said  the  nurse,  who  no  sooner 
ceased  to  walk  than  she  began  a  sort  of  diagonal  movement 
without  progression,  in  which  one  heel  clacked,  and  all  her 
petticoats  swung,  and  the  baby  who,  head  downwards,  was 
snorting  with  gaping  mouth  under  the  woolen  coverlet,  was 
supposed  to  be  soothed.  "  Good  morning,  ma'am.  You'll 
excuse  my  intruding  " — 

"  Not  at  all,  mum,"  said  Mrs.  Lake.  By  which  she  did 
not  mean  to  reject  the  excuse,  but  to  disclaim  the  intrusion. 

"When  the  nurse  was  not  speaking,  she  kept  time  to  her 
own  rocking  by  a  peculiar  click  of  her  tongue  against  the 
roof  of  her  mouth ;  and  indeed  it  sometimes  mingled, 
almost  confusingly,  with  her  conversation.  "You're  very 
obliging,  ma'am,  I'm  sure,"  said  she,  and,  persuaded  by  Mrs. 
Lake,  she  took  a  seat.  "You'll  excuse  me  for  asking  a 
singular  question,  ma'am,  but  was  your  husband's  father  and 
grandfather  both  millers  ?  " 

"They  was,  mum,"  said  Mrs.  Lake.  "My  husband's 
father's  father  built  this  mill  where  we  now  stands.  It  cost 
him  a  deal  of  money,  and  he  died  with  a  debt  upon  it.  My 
husband's  father  paid  un  off;  and  he  meant  to  have  built  a 
house,  mum,  but  he  never  did,  worse  luck  for  us.  He  alius 
says,  says  he, — that's  my  husband's  father,  mum, — '  I'll 
leave  that  to  Abel,' — that's  my  maester,  mum.  But  nine 
year  ago  come  Michaelmas  " — 

Mrs.  Lake's  story  was  here  interrupted  by  a  frightful  out- 
burst of  coughing  from  the  unfortunate  baby,  who  on  the  re- 
moval of  the  woolen  shawl,  presented  an  appearance  which 
would  have  been  comical  but  for  the  sympathy  its  condition 
demanded. 

A  very  red  and  utterly  shapeless  little  face  lay,  like  a 
crushed  beet-root,  in  a  mass  of  dainty  laces  almost  voluminous 
enough  to  have  dressed  out  a  bride.  As  a  sort  of  crowning 
satire,  the  face  in  particular  was  surrounded  by  a  broad  frill, 
spotted  with  bunches  of  pink  satin  ribbon,  and  farther  en- 
cased in  a  white  satin  hood  of  elaborate  workmanship  and 
fringes. 

The  contrast  between  the  natural  red  of  the  baby's  com- 
plexion and  its  snowy  finery  was  ludicrously  suggestive  of  an 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  41 

over-dressed  nigger,  to  begin  with ;  but  when,  in  the  parox- 
ysms of  its  cough,  the  tiny  creature's  face  passed  by  sbadea 
of  plum- color  to  a  bluish  black,  the  result  was  appalling  to 
behold. 

Mrs.  Lake's  experienced  ears  were  not  slow  to  discover 
that  the  child  had  got  whooping-cough,  which  the  nurse  con- 
fessed was  the  case.  She  also  apologized  for  bringing  in  the 
baby  among  Mrs.  Lake's  children,  saying  that  she  had 
"  thought  of  nothing  but  the  poor  little  chirrub  herself." 

"  Don't  name  it,  mum,"  replied  the  windmiller's  wife.  "  I 
always  say  if  children  be  to  have  things,  they'll  have  'em ; 
and  if  not,  why  they  won't."  A  theory  which  seems  to  sum 
up  the  views  of  the  majority  of  people  in  Mrs.  Lake's  class 
of  life  upon  the  spread  of  disease. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what's  coming  to  my  poor  head," 
the  nurse  continued  :  "  I've  not  so  much  as  told  you  who  I 
am,  ma'am.  I'm  nurse  at  the  Grange,  ma'am,  with  Mr. 
Ammaby  and  Lady  Louisa.  They've  been  in  town,  and  her 
ladyship's  had  the  very  best  advice,  and  now  we've  come  to 
^he  country  for  three  months,  but  the  dear  child  don't  seem 
a  bit  the  better.  And  we've  been  trying  every  thing,  I'm 
sure.  For  any  thing  I  heard  of  I've  tried,  as  well  as  wdiat 
the  doctor  ordered,  and  rubbing  it  with  some  stuff  Lady 
Louisa's  mamma  insisted  upon,  too, — even  to  a  frog  put  into 
the  dear  child's  mouth,  and  drawed  back  by  its  legs,  that's 
supposed  to  be  a  certain  cure,  but  only  frightened  it  into  a 
fit  I  thought  it  never  would  have  come  out  of,  as  well  as 
fetching  her  ladyship  all  the  way  from  her  boudoir  to  know 
what  was  the  matter — which  I  no  more  dared  tell  her  than 

fly-" 

"  Dear,  dear  !  "  said  the  miller's  wife  ;  "  have  you  tried 
goose-grease,  mum  ?     'Tis  an  excellent  thing." 

"  Goose-grease,  ma'am,  and  an  excellent  ointment  from  the 
bone-setter's  at  the  toll-bar,  which  the  butler  paid  for  out  of  his 
own  pocket,  knowing  it  to  have  done  a  world  of  good  to  his 
sister  that  had  a  bad  leg,  besides  being  a  certain  cure  for 
coughs,  and  cancer,  and  consumption  as  wrell.  And  then  the 
doctor's  imprecation  on  its  little  chest,  night  and  morning, 
besides  ;  but  nothing  don't  seem  to  do  no  good,"  said  the 
poor  nurse.  "And  so,  ma'am, — her  ladyship  being  gone  to 
the  town, — thinks  I,  I'll  take  the  dear  child  to  the  windmill. 


42  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

For  they  do  say, — where  I  came  from,  ma'am, — that  if  a 
miller,  that's  the  son  of  a  miller,  and  the  grandson  of  a 
miller,  holds  a  child  that's  got  the  whooping-cough  in  the 
hopper  of  the  mill  whilst  the  mill's  going,  it  cures  them, 
however  bad  they  be." 

The  reason  of  the  nurse's  visit  being  now  made  known, 
Mrs.  Lake  called  her  husband,  and  explained  to  him  what  he 
was ,  asked  to  do  for  "  her  ladyship's  baby."  The  miller 
scratched  his  head. 

"  I've  heard  my  father  say  that  his  brother  that  drove  a 
mill  in  Cheshire  had  had  it  to  do,"  said  he,  "  but  I  never  did 
it  myself,  ma'am,  nor  ever  see  un  done.  And  a  hopper  be 
an  ackerd  place,  ma'am.  We've  ground  many  a  cat  in  this 
mill,  from  getting  in  the  hopper  at  nights  for  warmth.  How- 
ever," he  added,  "  I  suppose  I  can  hold  the  little  lady  pretty 
tight."  And  finally,  though  with  some  unwillingness,  the 
miller  consented  to  try  the  charm ;  being  chiefly  influenced 
by  the  wish  not  to  disoblige  the  gentlefolk  at  the  Grange. 

The  little  Jan  had  watched  the  proceedings  of  the  visitors 
with  great  attention.  During  the  poor  baby's  fit  of  cough- 
ing, he  was  so  absorbed  that  the  sandy  kitten  slipped  through 
his  arms  and  made  off,  with  her  tail  as  stiff  as  a  sentry's 
musket ;  and  now  that  the  miller  took  the  baby  into  his  arms, 
Jan  became  excited,  and  asked,  "  What  daddy  do  with  un?" 

"  The  old-fashioned  little  piece ! "  exclaimed  the  nurse, 
admiringly.  And  Mrs.  Lake  added,  "  Let  un  see  the  little 
lady,  maester." 

The  miller  held  out  the  baby,  and  the  nurse,  removing  a 
dainty  handkerchief  edged  with  Valenciennes  lace  from  its 
face,  introduced  it  as  "Miss  Amabel  Adeline  Ammaby;" 
and  Mrs.  Lake  murmured,  "What  a  lovely  little  thing ! " 
By  which,  for  truth's  sake,  it  is  to  be  hoped  she  meant  the 
lace-edged  handkerchief. 

In  the  exchange  of  civilities  between  the  two  women  the 
respective  children  in  their  charge  were  admonished  to  kiss 
each  other, — a  feat  which  was  accomplished  by  Jan's  kissing 
the  baby  very  tenderly,  and  with  all  his  usual  gravity. 

As  this  partly  awoke  the  baby  from  a  doze,  its  red  face 
began  to  crease,  and  pucker,  and  twist  into  various  contor- 
tions, at  which  Jan  gazed  with  a  sort  of  solemn  curiosity  in 
bis  black  eyes. 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  43 

"  Stroke  the  little  lady's  cheeks,  love,"  said  Mrs.  Lake, 
irrepressibly  proud  of  the  winning  ways  and  quaint  grace 
which  certainly  did  distinguish  her  foster-child. 

Jan  leaned  forward  once  more,  and  passed  his  little  hand 
softly  down  the  baby's  face  twice  or  thrice,  as  he  was  wont 
to  stroke  the  sandy  kitten,  as  it  slept  with  him,  saying,  "  Poor 
itta  pussy  ! " 

"  It's  not  a  puss-cat,  bless  his  little  heart !  "  said  the  mat- 
ter-of-fact nurse.  "It's  little  Miss  Amabel  Adeline  Am- 
maby." 

"  Say  it,  love  !  "  said  Mrs.  Lake,  adding,  to  the  nurse,  "  he 
can  say  any  thing,  mum." 

"Miss  Am — abel  Ad — e — line  Am — ma — by"  prompted 
the  nurse. 

"  Amabel !  "  said  the  little  Jan,  softly.  But,  after  this 
feat,  he  took  a  fit  of  childish  reticence,  and  would  say  no 
more  ;.  whilst,  deeply  resentful  of  the  liberties  Jan  had  taken, 
Miss  Amabel  Adeline  Ammaby  twisted  her  features  till  she 
looked  like  a  gutta-percha  gargoyle,  and  squalled  as  only  a 
fretful  baby  can  squall. 

She  was  calmed  at  last,  however,  and  the  windmiller  took 
her  once  more  into  his  arms,  and  Mrs.  Lake  carrying  Jan, 
they  all  climbed  up  the  narrow  ladder  to  the  next  floor. 

Heavily  ground  the  huge  stones  with  a  hundred  and 
twenty  revolutions  a  minute,  making  the  chamber  shake  as 
they  went  round. 

They  made  the  nurse  giddy.  The  simplest  machinery  has 
a  bewildering  effect  upon  an  unaccustomed  person.  So  has 
going  up  a  ladder  ;  which  makes  you  feel  much  less  safe  in 
the  place  to  which  it  leads  you  than  if  you  had  got  there  by 
a  proper  flight  of  stairs.  So — very  often — has  finding  your- 
self face  to  face  with  the  accomplishment  of  what  you  have 
been  striving  for,  if  you  happen  to  be  weak-minded. 

Under  the  combined  influences  of  all  these  causes,  the 
nurse  listened  nervously  to  Master  Lake,  as  he  did  the  honors 
of  the  milL 

"  Those  be  the  mill-stones,  ma'am.  Pretty  fastish  they 
grinds,  and  they  goes  faster  when  the  wind's  gusty.  Many  a 
good  cat  they've  ground  as  flat  as  a  pancake  from  the  poor 
gawny  beast's  getting  into  the  hopper." 

«'  Ohj  sir  I "  cried  the  nurse,  now  thoroughly  alarmed. 


44  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

"give  me  the  young  lady  back  again.     Deary,  deary  me! 
I'd  no  notion  it  was  so  dangerous.     Oh,  don't,  sir  !  don't !  " 

"  Tut,  tut !  I'll  hold  un  safe,  ma'am,"  said  the  windmil- 
ler,  who  had  all  a  man's  dislike  for  shirking  at  the  last  moment 
what  had  once  been  decided  upon  ;  and,  as  the  nurse  after- 
wards expressed  it,  before  she  had  time  to  scream,  he  had 
tucked  Miss  Amabel  Adeline  Ammabj's  finery  well  round 
her,  and  had  dipped  her  into  the  hopper  and  out  again. 

.In  that  moment  of  suspense  both  the  women  had  been 
silent,  and  the  little  Jan  had  gazed  steadily  at  the  operation. 
As  it  safely  ended,  they  both  broke  simultaneously  into 
words. 

"  You  might  have  knocked  me  down  with  a  feather,  mum !  " 
gasped  Mrs.  Lake.  "I  couldn't  look,  mum.  I  couldn't  have 
looked  to  save  my  life.     I  turned  my  back." 

"  I'd  back  'ee  alius  to  do  the  silliest  thing  as  could  be  done, 
missus,"  said  the  miller,  who  had  a  pleasant  husbandly  way 
of  commenting  upon  his  wife's  conversation  to  her  disparage- 
ment, when  she  talked  before  him. 

"As  for  me,  ma'am,"  the  nurse  said,  "  I  couldn't  take  my 
eyes  off  the  dear  child's  hood.  But  move, — no  thank  you, 
ma'am, — I  couldn't  have  moved  hand  or  foot  for  a  five-pound 
note,  paid  upon  the  spot." 

-  The  baby  got  well.  Whether  the  mill  charm  worked  the 
cure,  or  whether  the  fine  fresh  breezes  of  that  healthy  district 
made  a  change  for  the  better  in  the  child's  state,  could  not 
be  proved. 

Nor  were  these  the  only  possible  causes  of  the  recovery. 

The  kind-hearted  butler  blessed  the  day  when  he  laid  out 
three  and  eightpence  in  a  box  of  the  bone-setter's  ointment, 
to  such  good  purpose. 

Lady  Louisa's  mamma  triumphantly  hoped  that  it  would 
be  a  lesson  to  her  dear  daughter  never  again  T:o  set  a  London 
doctor's  advice  (however  expensive)  above  a  mother's  (she 
meant  a  grandmother's)  experience. 

The  cook  said,  "  Goose-grease  and  kitchen  physic  for 
her  !  " 

And  of  course  the  doctor  very  properly,  as  well  as  mod- 
estly, observed  that  "  he  had  confidently  anticipated  perma- 
nent beneficial  results  from  a  persevering  use  of  the  embro- 
^atioa." 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  45 

And  only  to  the  nurse  and  the  wind  miller's  family  was  it 
known  that  Miss  Amabel  Adeline  Amrnaby  had  been  dipped 
in  the  mill-hopper. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

GENTRY    BORN LEARNING     LOST JAN'S     BEDFELLOW— 

AMABEL. 

After  the  nurse  and  baby  had  left  the  mill,  Mrs.  Lake 
showered  extra  caresses  upon  the  little  Jan.  It  had  given 
her  a  strange  pleasure  to  see  him  in  contact  with  the 
Squire's  child.  She  knew  enough  of  the  manners  and 
customs,  the  looks  and  the  intelligence  of  the  children  of 
educated  parents,  to  be  aware  that  there  were  "makings"  in 
those  who  were  born  heirs  to  developed  intellects,  and  the 
grace  that  comes  of  discipline,  very  different  from  the 
"  makings  "  to  be  found  in  the  "  voolish  "  descendants  of  ill- 
nurtured  and  uneducated  generations. 

She  had  no  philosophical — hardly  any  reasonable  or  com- 
mendable— thoughts  about  it.  But  she  felt  that  Jan's 
countenance  and  his  "  ways  "  justified  her  first  belief  that  he 
was  "  gentry  born." 

She  was  proud  of  his  pretty  manners.  Indeed,  curiously 
enough,  she  had  recalled  her  old  memories  of  nursery  eti- 
quette under  a  first-rate  upper  nurse  in  "  her  young  days," 
to  apply  them  to  the  little  Jan's  training. 

Why  she  had  not  done  this  with  her  own  children  is  a 
question  that  cannot  perhaps  be  solved  till  we  know  why  so 
many  soldiers,  used  for,  it  may  be,  a  quarter  of  a  century  to 
personal  cleanliness  as  scrupulous  as  a  gentleman's,  and  to 
enforced  neatness  of  clothes,  rooms,  and  general  habits,  take 
back  to  dirt  and  slovenliness  with  greediness  when  they 
leave  the  service ;  and  why  many  a  nurse,  whose  voice 
and  manners  were  beyond  reproach  in  her  mistress's  nursery, 
brings  up  her  own  children  in  after  life  on  the  village  sys- 
tem of  bawling,  banging,  threatening,  cuddling,  stuffing, 
gmacking  and  coarse  language,  just  as  if  she  had  never  ex- 


46  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL, 

perienced  the  better  discipline  attainable  by  gentle  firmness 
and  regular  habits. 

Mrs.  Lake  had  a  small  satisfaction  in  Jan's  brief  and 
limited  intercourse  with  so  genteel  a  baby,  and  after  it  was 
all  over  she  amused  herself  with  making  him  repeat  the 
baby's  very  genteel  (and  as  she  justly  said  "  uncommon ") 
name. 

When  Abel  came  back  from  school,  he  resumed  his 
charge,  and  Mrs.  Lake  went  about  other  work.  She  was 
busy,  and  the  nurse-boy  put  Jan  to  bed  himself.  The 
sandy  kitten  waited  till  Jan  was  fairly  established,  so  as  to 
receive  her  comfortably,  and  then  she  dropped  from  the 
roof  of  the  press-bed,  and  he  cuddled  her  into  his  arms, 
where  she  purred  like  a  kettle  just  beginning  to  sing. 

Outside,  the  wind  was  rising,  and,  passing  more  or  less 
through  the  outer  door,  it  roared  in  the  round-house;  but 
they  were  well  sheltered  in  the  dwelling-room,  and  could 
listen  complacently  to  the  gusts  that  whirled  the  sails,  and 
made  the  heavy  stones  fly  round  till  tliey  shook  the  roof. 
Just  above  the  press-bed  a  candle  was  stuck  in  the  wall,  and 
the  dim  light  falling  through  the  gloom  upon  the  children 
made  a  scene  worthy  of  the  pencil  of  Rembrandt,  that  great 
son  of  a  windmiiler. 

When  Mrs.  Lake  found  time  to  come  to  the  corner  where 
the  old  press-bed  stood,  the  kitten  was  asleep,  and  Jan  very 
nearly  so  ;  and  by  them  sat  Abel,  watching  every  breath 
that  his  foster-brother  drew.  And,  as  he  watched,  his 
trustworthy  eyes  and  most  sweet  smile  lighting  up  a  face  to 
which  his  forefathers  had  bequeathed  little  beauty  or  intel- 
lect, he  might  have  been  the  guardian  angel  of  the  nameless 
Jan,  scarcely  veiled  under  the  likeness  of  a  child. 

His  mother  smiled  tenderly  back  upon  him.  He  was  very 
dear  to  her,  and  not  the.  less  so  for  his  tenderness  to  Jan. 

Then  she  stooped  to  kiss  her  foster-child,  who  opened  his 
black  eyes  very  wide,  and  caught  the  sleeping  kitten  round 
the  head,  in  the  fear  that  it  might  be  taken  from  him. 

"Tell  Abel  the  name  of  pretty  young  lady  you  see  to- 
day, love,"  said  Mrs.  Lake. 

But.  Jan  was  well  aware  of  his  power  over  the  miller's 
wife,  and  was  apt  to  indulge  in  caprice.  So  he  only  shook 
his  head?  and  cMUi^d  cur  k  w<v.  u,t>re  tightly  than  before* 


JAN  OP  THE  WINDMILL.  A? 

"  Tell  un,  Janny  dear.  Tell  un,  there's  a  lovey  !  "  said 
Mrs.  Lake.     "  Who  did  daddy  put  in  the  hopper?  " 

But  still  Jan  gazed  at  nothing  in  particular  with  a  sly 
twinkle  in  his  black  eyes,  and  continued  to  squeeze  poor 
Sandy  to  a  degree  that  can  have  been  little  less  agonizing 
than  the  millstone  torture  ;  and  obdurate  he  would  probably 
have  remained,  but  that  Abel,  bending  over  him,  said,  "  Do 
'«e  tell  poor  Abel,  Jan." 

The  child  fixed  his  bright  eyes  steadily  on  Abel's  well- 
loved  face  for  a  few  seconds,  and  then  said  quite  clearly,  in' 
soft,  evenly  accented  syllables, — 

"  Amabel." 

And  the  sandy  kitten,  having  escaped  with  its  life,  crept 
back  into  Jan's  bosom  and  purred  itself  to  rest. 


CHAPTER  X. 

ABEL    AT  HOME. — JAN    OBJECTS    TO    THE    MILLER'S  MAN 

THE    ALPHABET. THE  CHEAP  JACK "  PITCHERS." 

Poor  Abel  was  not  fated  to  get  much  regular  schooling. 
He  particularly  liked  learning,  but  the  interval  was  all  too 
brief  between  the  time  when  his  mother  was  able  to  spare 
him  from  housework  and  the  time  when  his  father  began  to 
employ  him  in  the  mill. 

George  got  more  lazy  and  stupid,  instead  of  less  so,  and 
though  in  some  strange  manner  he  kept  his  place,  yet  when 
Master  Lake  had  once  begun  to  employ  his  son,  he  found 
that  he  would  get  along  but  ill  without  him. 

To  Jan,  Abel's  being  about  the  windmill  gave  the  utmost 
satisfaction.  He  played  with  his  younger  foster  brothers 
and  sisters  contentedly  enough,  but  his  love  for  Abel,  and 
for  being  with  Abel,  was  quite  another  thing. 

Mrs.  Lake,  too,  had  no  confidence  in  any  one  but  Abel 
as  a  nurse  for  her  darling ;  the  consequence  of  which  was, 
that  the  little  Jan  was  constantly  trotting  at  his  foster- 
brother's  heels  through  the  round-house,  attempting  valiant 
escalades  on  the  ladders,  and  covering  himself  from  head  to 
foot  with  flour  in  the  effort  to  cultivate  a  miller's  thumb. 


48  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

One  day  Mrs.  Lake,  having  sent  the  other  children  off 
to  school,  was  bent  upon  having  a  thorough  cleaning-out  of 
the  dwelling-room,  during  which  process  Jan  was  likely  to 
be  in  her  way ;  so  she  caught  him  up  in  her  arms  and  went 
to  seek  Abel  in  the  round-house. 

She  had  the  less  scruple  in  availing  herself  of  his  services, 
that  there  was  no  wind,  and  business  was  not  brisk  in  the 
windmill. 

"  Maester  !  "  she  cried,  "  can  Abel  mind  Jan  a  bit  ?  I  be 
going  to  clean  the  house." 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  the  windmiller,  "Abel  can  mind  un.  I  be 
going  to  the  village  myself,  but  there's  Gearge  to  start,  if  so 
be  the  wind  rises.  And  then  if  he  want  Abel,  thee  must 
take  the  little  un  again." 

"  Sartinly  I  will,"  said  his  wife ;  and  Abel  willingly 
received  his  charge  and  carried  him  off  to  play  among  the 
sacks. 

George  joined  them  once,  but  Jan  had  a  rooted  and  un- 
conquerable dislike  to  the  miller's  man,  and  never  replied  to 
his  advances  with  any  thing  more  friendly  than  anger  or 
tears.  This  clay  was  no  exception  to  others  in  this  respect; 
and  after  a  few  fruitless  attempts  to  make  himself  accept- 
able, in  the  course  of  which  he  trod  on  the  sandy  kitten's 
tail,  who  ran  up  Jan's  back  and  spat  at  her  enemy  from  that 
vantage-ground,  George  went  off  muttering  in  terms  by  no 
means  complimentary  to  the  little  Jan.  Abel  did  his  best  to 
excuse  the  capricious  child  to  George,  besides  chicling  him 
for  his  rudeness — with  very  little  effect.  Jan  dried  his  black 
eyes  as  the  miller's  man  made  off,  but  he  looked  no  more 
ashamed  of  himself  than  a  good  dog  looks  who  has  growled  or 
refused  the  paw  of  friendship  to  some  one  for  excellent  rea- 
sons of  his  own. 

After  George  had  gone,  they  played  about  happily  enough, 
Jan  riding  on  Abel's  back,  and  the  sandy  kitten  on  Jan's,  in 
and  out  among  the  corn-sacks,  full  canter  as  far  as  the  old 
carved  meal-chest,  and  back  to  the  door  again. 

Poor  Abel,  with  his  double  burden,  got  tired  at  last,  and 
they  sat  down  and  sifted  flour  for  the  education  of  their 
thumbs.  Jan  was  pinching  and  flattening  his  with  a  very 
solemn  face,  in  the  hope  of  attaining  to  a  miller's  thumb  by 


■■•'■/■■   i 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  49 

u  chorter  pi-ocess  than  the  common  one,  when  Abel  suddenly 
said, — 

"  I  tell  thee  what,  then,  Jan :  'tis  time  thee  learned  thy 
letters.     And  I'll  teach  thee.     Come  hither." 

Jan  jumped  up,  thereby  pitching  the  kitten  headlong  from 
his  shoulders,  and  ran  to  Abel,  who  was  squatting  by  some 
spilled  flour  near  a  sack,  and  was  smoothing  it  upon  the  floor 
with  his  hands.  Then  very  slowly  and  carefully  he  traced 
the  letter  A  in  the  flour,  keenly  watched  by  Jan. 

"  That's  A,"  said  he.     "  Say  it,  Jan.     A," 

"A,"  replied  Jan,  obediently.  But  he  had  no  sooner  said 
it,  than,  adding  hastily,  "  Let  Jan  do  it,"  he  traced  a  second 
A,  slightly  larger  than  Abel's,  in  three  firm  and  perfectly 
proportioned  strokes. 

His  moving  finger  was  too  much  for  the  kitten's  feelings, 
and  she  sprang  into  the  flour  and  pawed  both  the  A's  out  of 
existence. 

Jan  slapped  her  vigorously,  and  having  smoothed  the  sur- 
face once  more,  he  drew  A  after  A  with  the  greatest  rapid- 
ity, scrambling  along  sideways  like  a  crab,  and  using  both 
hands  "indifferently,  till  the  row  stretched  as  far  as  the  flour 
would  permit. 

Abel's  pride  in  his  pupil  was  great,  and  he  was  fain  to  run 
off  to  call  his  mother  to  see  the  performances  of  their  prod- 
igy, but  Jan  was  too  impatient  to  spare  him. 

"  Let  Jan  do  more  !  "  he  cried. 

Abel  traced  a  B  in  the  flour.     "That  's  B,  Jan,"  said  he. 

"  Jan  do  it,"  replied  Jan,  confidently. 

"  But  say  it,"  said  his  teacher,  restraining  him.  "  Say  B, 
Jan." 

"  B,"  said  Jan,  impatiently  ;  and  adding,  "  Jan  do  it,"  he 
began  a  row  of  B's.  He  hesitated  slightly  before  making  the 
second  curve,  and  looked  at  his  model,  after  which  he  went 
down  the  line  as  before,  and  quite  as  successfully.  And  the 
kitten  went  down  also,  pawing  out  each  letter  as  it  was 
made,  under  the  impression  that  the  whole  affair  was  a  game 
of  play  with  herself. 

"  There  bean't  a  letter  that  bothers  him,"  cried  Abel,  tri- 
umphantly, to  the  no  less  triumphant  foster-mother. 

Jan  had,  indeed,  gone  through  the  whole  alphabet,  with 
the  utmost  ease  and  self-confidence ;  but  his  remembrance  ol 
4 


SO  JAN  OP  THE  WINDMILL. 

the  names  of  the  letters  he  drew  so  readily  proved  to  be  fai 
less  perfect  than  his  representations  of  them  on  the  floor  of 
the  round-house. 

Abel  found  his  pupil's  progress  hindered  by  the  very  talent 
that  he  had  displayed.  He  was  so  anxious  to  draw  the 
letters  that  he  would  not  learn  them,  and  Abel  was  at  last 
obliged  to  make  one  thing  a  condition  of  the  other. 

"  Say  it  then,  Jan,"  he  would  cry,  "  and  then  thee  shall 
make  'em." 

Mrs.  Lake  commissioned  Abel  to  buy  a  small  slate  and 
pencil  for  Jan  at  the  village  shop,  and  these  were  now  the 
child's  favorite  toys.  He  would  sit  quiet  for  any  length  of 
time  with  them.  Even  the  sandy  kitten  was  neglected,  or 
got  a  rap  on  its  nose  with  the  slate-pencil,  when  to  toy  with 
the  moving  point  had  been  too  great  a  temptation  to  be  re- 
sisted. For  a  while  Jan's  taste  for  wielding  the  pencil  was 
solely  devoted  to  furthering  his  learning  to  read.  He  drew 
letters  only  till  the  day  that  the  Cheap  Jack  called. 

The  Cheap  Jack  was  a  travelling  pedler.  who  did  a  good 
deal  of  business  in  that  neighborhood.  He  was  not  a  ped- 
ler pure,  for  he  had  a  little  shop  in  the  next  town.  Nature 
had  not  favored  him.  He  was  a  hunchback.  He  was,  or 
pretended  to  be,  deaf.  He  had  a  very  ugly  face,  made 
uglier  by  dirt,  above  which  he  wore  a  mangy  hair  cap. 

He  sold  rough  pottery,  cheap  crockery  and  glass,  mock 
jewelry,  low  song-books,  framed  pictures,  mirrors,  and  quack 
medicines.  He  bought  old  bottles,  bones,  and  rags.  And 
what  else  he  bought  or  sohl,  or  dealt  with,  was  dimly 
guessed  at  by  a  few,  but  fully  known  to  none. 

Where  he  was  born,  what  was  his  true  name  or  age, 
whether  on  any  given  occasion,  lie  was  speaking  less  than 
lies,  and  what  was  the  ultimate  object  of  hi?  words  and 
deeds, — at  these  things  no  one  even  guessed.  That  his  con- 
science was  ever  clean,  that  his  dirty  face  once  masked  no 
vile  or  pretty  plots  for  evil  in  the  brain  behind,  that  at  some 
past  period  he  was  a  child, — these  things  it  would  have 
tasked  the  strongest  faith  to  realize. 

He  was  not  so  unpopular  with  children  as  the  miller's 
man. 

The  instinct  of  children  is  like  the  instinct  of  dogs,  very 
true  and  delicate  as  a  rule.     But  dogs,  from    Cerberus 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  51 

downwards,  are  liable  to  be  biassed  by  sops.  And  four 
paper-covered  sails,  that  twirl  upon  the  end  of  a  stick  as  the 
wind  blows,  would  warp  the  better  judgment  of  most  little 
boys,  especially  (for  a  bargain  is  more  precious  than  a  gift) 
when  the  thing  is  to  be  bought  for  a  few  old  bones. 

Jan  was  a  little  afraid  of  the  Cheap  .Jack,  but  he  liked 
his  whirligigs.  They  went  when  the  mill  was  going,  and 
sometimes  when  the  mill  wouldn't  go,  if  you  ran  hard  tc 
make  a  breeze. 

But  it  so  happened  that  the  first  day  on  which  the  Cheap 
Jack  came  round  after  Jan  had  begun  to  learn  his  letters, 
he  brought  forth  some  wares  which  moved  Jan's  feelings 
more  than  the  whirligigs  did. 

"  Buy  a  nice  picter,  marm  ? "  said  the  Cheap  Jack  to 
Mrs.  Lake,  who,  with  the  best  intentions  not  to  purchase, 
felt  that  there  could  be  no  harm  in  seeing  what  the  man  had 
got. 

"You  shall  have  'Joseph  and  his  Bretheren' cheap," 
roared  the  hunchback,  becoming  more  pressing  as  the  wind- 
miller's  wife  seemed  slow  to  be  fascinated,  and  '  shaking 
"Joseph  and  his  Brethren,"  framed  in  satin-wood,  in  her 
face,  as  he  advanced  upon  her  with  an  almost  threatening 
air.  "  Don't  want  'em  ?  Take  'Antony  and  Cleopatterer.' 
It's  a  sweet  picter.  Too  dear?  Do  you  know  what  sech 
picters  costs  to  paint?  Look  at  Cleopatterer's  dress  and  the 
jewels  she  has  on.  I  don't  make  a  farthing  on  'em.  I  gets 
daily  bread  out  of  the  other  things,  and  only  keeps  the 
picters  to  oblige  one  or  two  ladies  of  taste  that  likes  to  give 
their  rooms  a  genteel  appearance." 

The  long  disuse  of  such  powers  of  judgment  as  she  had, 
and  long  habit  of  always  giving  way,  had  helped  to  convert 
Mrs.  Lake's  naturally  weak  will  and  unselfish  disposition 
into  a  sort  of  mental  pulp,  plastic  to  any  pressure  from 
without.  To  men  she  invariably  yielded ;  and,  poor  speci- 
men of  a  man  as  the  Cheap  Jack  was,  she  had  no  fibre  of 
personal  judgment  or  decision  in  the  strength  of  which  to 
oppose  his  assertions,  and  every  instant  she  became  more 
and  more  convinced  that  wares  she  neither  wanted  nor  ap- 
proved of  were  necessary  to  her,  and  good  bargains,  because 
\h.Q  man  who  sold  them  said  so. 

The  Cheap  Jack  was  a  knave,  but  he  w$s  no  fool.     In  a 


52  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

crowded  market-place,  or  at  a  street  door,  no  other  tongue 
wagged  than  his»  But  he  knew  exactly  the  moment  when  a 
doubtful  bargain  might  be  clinched  by  a  bullying  tone  and  a 
fierce  look  on  his  dirty  face,  at  cottage  doors,  on  heaths  or 
downs,  when  the  good  wife  was  alone  with  her  children,  and 
the  nearest  neighbor  was  half  a  mile  away. 

No  length  of  experience  taught  Mrs.  Lake  wisdom  in 
reference  to  the  Cheap  Jack. 

Each  time  that  his  cart  appeared  in  sight  she  resolved  to 
have  nothing  to  do  with  him,  warned  by  the  latest  cracked 
jug,  or  the  sugar-basin  which,  after  three-quarters  of  an 
hour  wasted  in  chaffering,  she  had  beaten  down  to  three- 
halfpence  dearer  than  what  she  afterwards  found  to  be  the 
shop  price  in  the  town.  But  proof  to  the  untrained  mind  is 
"  as  water  spilled  upon  the  ground."  And  when  the  Cheap 
Jack  declared  that  she  was  quite  free  to  look  without  buy- 
ing, and  that  he  did  not  want  her  to  buy,  Mrs.  Lake  allowed 
him  to  pull  down  his  goods  as  before,  and  listened  to  his 
statements  as  if  she  had  never  proved  them  to  be  lies,  and 
was  thrown  into  confusion  and  fluster  when  he  began  to 
bully,  and  bought  in  haste  to  be  rid  of  him,  and  repented, 
at  leisure — to  no  purpose  as  far  as  the  future  was  con- 
cerned. 

"  Look  here  ! "  yelled  the  hunchback,  as  he  waddled  with 
horrible  swiftness  after  the  miller's  wife,  as  she  withdrew 
into  the  mill;  "which  do  you  mean  to  have?  /  gets  noth- 
ing on  'em,  whichever  you  takes,  so  please  yourself.  Take 
'Joseph  and  his  Bretheren.'  The  frame  's  worth  twice  the 
money.  Take  the  other,  too,  and  I'll  take,  sixpence  off  the 
pair,  and  be  out  of  pocket  to  please  you." 

"  Nothing  to-day,  thank  you  ! "  said  Mrs.  Lake,  as  loudly 
as  she  could. 

"  Got  any  other  sort,  you  say  ? "  said  the  Cheap  Jack. 
"  I've  got  all  sorts,  but  some  parties  is  so  difficult  to  please." 

"Wait  a  bit,  wait  a  bit,"  he  continued,  as  Mrs.  Lake  again 
tried  to  make  him  (willing  to)  hear  that  she  wanted  none  of 
his  wares ;  and,  vanishing  with  the  uncanny  quickness  com- 
mon to  him,  he  waddled  swiftly  back  again  to  his  cart,  and 
returned,  before  Mrs.  Lake  could  secure  herself  from  intru- 
sion, laden  with  a  fresh  supply  of  pictures,  the  weight  of 
Which  it  seemed  marvellous  that  he  could  support. 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  53 

"Now  you've  got  your  choice,  marm,"  he  said.  "It's  no 
trouble  to  me  to  oblige  a  good  customer.  There's  picters 
for  you ! " 

"  Pitchers !  "  said  Jan,  admiringly,  as  he  crept  up  to 
them. 

"  So  they  are,  my  little  man.  Now  then,  help  your 
mammy  to  choose.  Most  of  these  is  things  you  can't  get 
now,  for  love  nor  money.  Here  you  are, — '  Love  and 
Beauty.'  That's  a  sweet  thing.  <  St.  Joseph,'  <  The  Rob- 
ber's Bride,'  '  Child  and  Lamb,'  i  Melan-choly.'  Here's  an 
old"— 

"  Pitcher ! ''"  exclaimed  Jan  once  more,  gazing  at  an  old 
etching  in  a  dirty  frame,  which  the  Cheap  Jack  was  hold- 
ing hi  his  hand.  "  Pitcher,  pitcher !  let  Jan  look !  "  he 
cried. 

It  was  of  a  water-mill,  old,  thatched,  and  with  an  unpro- 
tected wheel,  like  the  one  in  the  valley  below.  Some 
gnarled  willows  stretched  across  the  water,  whose  trunks 
seemed  hardly  less  time-worn  and  rotten  than  the  wheel 
below.  This  foreground  subject  was  in  shadow,  and  strongly 
drawn,  but  beyond  it,  in  the  sunlight,  lay  a  bit  of  delicate 
distance,  on  the  rising  ground  of  which  stood  one  of  those 
small  wooden  windmills  known  as  Post-mills.  An  old 
woman  and  a  child  were  just  coming  into  the  shade,  and 
passing  beneath  a  wayside  shrine.  What  in  the  picture  took 
Jan's  fancy  it  is  impossible  to  say,  but  he  gazed  at  it  with 
exclamations  of  delight. 

The  Cheap  Jack  saw  that  it  was  certain  to  be  bought, 
and  he  raised  the  price  accordingly. 

Mrs.  Lake  felt  the  same  conviction,  and  began  to  try  at 
least  to  get  a  good  bargain. 

"'Tis  a  terr'ble  old  frame,"  said  she.  "  There  be  no  gold 
left  on  't."     And  no  more  there  was. 

"What  do  you  say?"  screamed  the  Cheap  Jack,  with  his 
hand  to  his  ear,  and  both  a  great  deal  too  close  to  Mrs. 
Lake's  face  to  be  pleasant. 

;'  'Tis  such  an  old  frame,"  she  shouted,  "and  the  gold  be 
all  gone." 

"  Old  ! M  cried  the  hunchback,  scowling ;  "  who  says  I  sell 
old  things  ?  Every  picter  in  that  lot's  brand  new  and  dirt 
cheap." 


54  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

"  The  gold  be  rubbed  off,"  screamed  Mrs.  Lake  in  his 
ear. 

"  Brighten  it  up,  then,"  said  the  Cheap  Jack, 

"Gold  ain't  paint;  gold  ain't  paper;  rub  it  up!"  and, 
suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  he  rubbed  the  dirty  old  frame 
vigorously  with  the  dirty  sleeve  of  his  smock. 

"  It  don't  seem  to  brighten  it,  nohow,"  said  Mrs.  Lake, 
looking  nervously  round ;  but  neither  the  miller  nor  George 
was  to  be  seen. 

"Real  gold  alius  looks  like  this  in  damp  weather,"  said 
the  Cheap  Jack.  "Hang  it  up  in  a  warm  room,  dust  it 
lightly  every  morning  with  a  dry  handkerchief,  an'  it'll 
come  out  that  shining  you'll  see  your  face  in  it.  And  when 
summer  comes,  cover  it  up  in  yaller  gauze  to  keep  off  the 
flies." 

Mrs.  Lake  looked  wistfully  at  the  place  the  Cheap  Jack 
had  rubbed,  but  she  had  no  redress,  and  saw  no  way  out  of 
her  hobble  but  to  buy  the  picture. 

When  the  bargain  was  completed,  the  Cheap  Jack  fell 
back  into  his  oiliest  manner;  it  being  part  of  his  system  not 
only  to  bully  at  the  critical  moment,  but  to  be  very  civil 
afterwards,  so  as  to  leave  an  impression  so  pleasant  on  the 
minds  of  his  lady  customers  that  they  could  hardly  do  other 
than  thank  him  for  his  promise  to  call  again  shortly  with 
"bargains  as  good  as  ever." 

The  Cheap  Jack  was  a  man  of  many  voices.  The  softness 
of  his  parting  words  to  Mrs.  Lake,  "  I'd  go  three  mile  out  of 
my  road,  ma'am,  to  call  on  a  lady  like  you,"  had  hardly  died 
away,  when  he  woke  the  echoes  of  the  plains  by  addressing 
his  horse  in  a  very  different  tone. 

The  Wiltshire  carters  and  horses  have  a  language  between 
them  which  falls  darkly  upon  the  ear  of  the  unlearned  therein ; 
but  the  uncouth  yell  which  the  Cheap  Jack  addressed  to  his 
beast  was  not  of  that  dialect.  The  sound  he  made  on  this 
occasion  was  not,  Ga  oot !  Coom  hedder!  or,  There  right! 
but  the  horse  understood  it. 

It  is  probable  that  it  never  heard  the  Cheap  Jack's  softer 
intonations,  for  its  protuberant  bones  gave  a  quiver  beneath 
the  scarred  skin  as  he  yelled.  Then  its  drooping  ears 
pricked,  faintly,  the   quayering  forelegs   were   braced,  one. 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  55 

desperate  jog  of  the  tottering  load  of  oddities,  and  it  set 
slowly  and  silently  forward. 

The  Cheap  Jack  did  not  follow  his  wares;  he  scrambled 
softly  round  the  mill,  like  a  deformed  cat,  looking  about 
him  on  all  sides.  Then  he  made  use  of  another  sound, — 
a  sharp,  suggestive  sound,  whistled  between  two  of  his 
fingers. 

Then  he  looked  round  again. 

No  one  appeared.  The  wheels  of  the  distant  cart  scraped 
slowly  along  the  road,  but  this  was  the  only  sound  the  Cheap 
Jack  heard. 

He  whistled  softly  again. 

And  as  the  cart  took  the  sharp  turn  of  the  road,  and  was 
lost  to  sight,  the  miller's  man  appeared,  and  the  Cheap  Jack 
greeted  him  in  the  softest  tone  he  had  yet  employed. 

"  Ah,  there  you  are,  my  dear ! " 

Meanwhile,  MrSo  Lake  sat  within,  and  looked  ruefully  at 
the  damaged  frame,  and  wished  that  the  master,  or  at  least 
the  man,  had  happened  to  be  at  home. 

It  is  to  be  feared  that  our  self-reproach  for  having  done 
wrong  is  not  always  so  certain,  or  so  keen,  as  our  self- 
reproach  for  having  allowed  ourselves  to  suffer  wrong — in 
a  bad  bargain. 

Whether  this  particular  picture  was  a  bad  bargain  it  is  not 
easy  to  decide. 

It  was  scandalously  dear  for  its  condition,  and  for  what  it 
had  cost  the  hunchback,  but  it  was  cheap  for  the  pleasure  it 
gave  to  the  little  Jan. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

SCARECROWS  AND  MEN JAN  REFUSES  TO  "MAKE  GEARGE.'* 

UNCANNY "JAN'S  OFF." THE  MOON  AND  THE  CLOUDS. 

The  picture  gave  Jan  great  pleasure,  but  it  proved  a 
stumbling-block  on  the  road  to  learning. 

To  "  make  letters "  on  his  slate  had  been  the  utmost  of 
his  ambition,  and  as  he  made  them  he  learned  them.     But 


56  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

after  the  Cheap  Jack's  visit  his  constant  cry  was,  "Jan 
make  pitchers."  And  when  Abel  tried  to  confine  his  atten- 
tion to  the  Alphabet,  he  would,  after  a  most  perfunctory 
repetition  of  a  few  letters  that  he  knew,  and  hap-hazard 
blunders  over  fresh  ones,  fling  his  arms  round  Abel's  neck 
and  say  coaxingly,  "Abel  dear,  make  J samy pitchers  on  his 
slate." 

Abel's  pictures,  at  the  best,  were  of  that  style  of  wall  dec- 
oration dear  to  street  boys. 

"  Make  a  pitcher  of  a  man,"  Jan  would  cry.  And  Abel 
did  so,  bit  by  bit,  to  Jan's  dictation.     Thus : 

"  Make  's  head.  Make  un  round.  Make  two  eyes. 
Make  a  nose.  Make  a  mouth.  Make 's  arms.  Make 's 
fingers,"  &c.  And,  with  some  "  free-handling,"  Abel  would 
strike  the  five  fingers  off,  one  by  one,  in  five  screeching 
strokes  of  the  slate-pencil.  But  his  art  was  conventional, 
and  when  Jan  said,  "Make  un  a  miller's  thumb,"  he  was 
puzzled,  arid  could  only  bend  the  shortest  of  the  five  strokes 
slightly  backwards  to  represent  the  trade-mark  of  his  fore- 
fathers. 

And  when  a  little  later  Jan  said  one  day,  "  'Tis  a  galley 
crow,  that  is.  Now  make  a  pitcher  of  a  man,  Abel  dear ! '' 
Abel  found  that  the  scarecrow  figure  was  the  limit  of  his 
artist  powers,  and  thenceforward  it  was  Jan  who  "made 
pitchers." 

He  drew  from  dawn  to  dusk  upon  the  little  slate  which  he 
wore  tied  by  a  bit  of  string  to  the  belt  of  his  pinafore. 

He  drew  his  foster-mother,  and  Abel,  and  the  kitten,  and 
the  clock,  and  the  flower-pots  in  the  window,  and  the  wind- 
mill itself,  and  every  thing  he  saw  or  imagined.  And  he 
drew  till  his  slate  was  full  on  both  sides,  and  then  in  every 
primitive  fashion  he  spat  and  rubbed  it  all  out  and  began 
again.  And  whenever  Jan's  face  was  washed,  the  two  faces 
of  his  slate  were  washed  too ;  and  with  this  companion  he 
was  perfectly  happy  and  constantly  employed. 

Now  it  was  Abel  who  gave  the  subjects  for  the  pictures, 
and  Jan  who  made  them,  and  it  was  good  Abel  also  who 
washed  the  slate,  and  rubbed  the  well-worn  stumps  of  pencil 
to  new  points  upon  the  round-house  floor. 

They  often  went  together  to  a  mound  at  some  little  dis- 
tance, where,  seated  side  by  side,  they  "  made  a  mill "  upon 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  57 

the  slate,  Jan  drawing,  and  Abel  dictating  the  details  to  be 
recorded. 

"Put  in  the  window,  Jan,"  he  would  say;  "and  another, 
and  another,  and  another,  and  another.  Now  put  the  sails. 
Now  put  the  stage.     Now  put  daddy  by  the  door." 

On  one  point  Jan  was  obstinate.  He  steadily  refused  to 
"  make  Gearge  "  upon  his  slate  in  any  capacity  whatever. 

Perhaps  it  was  in  this  habit  of  constantly  gazing  at  all 
things  about  him,  in  order  to  commit  them  to  his  slate, 
which  gave  a  strange,  dreamy  expression  to  Jan's  dark 
eyes.  Perhaps  it  was  sky-gazing,  or  the  windmiller's  trick 
of  watching  the  clouds,  or  perhaps  it  was  something  else, 
from  which  Jan  derived  an  erectness  of  carriage  not  com- 
mon among  the  children  about  him,  and  a  quaint  way 
of  carrying  his  little  chin  in  the  air  as  if  he  were  listening 
to  voices  from  a  higher  level  than  that  of  the  round-house 
floor; 

If  he  had  lived  farther  north,  he  could  hardly  have  es- 
caped the  suspicion  of  uncanniness.  He  was  strangely  like  a 
changeling  among  the  miller's  children. 

To  gratify  that  old  whim  of  his  about  the  red  shawl,  his 
doting  foster-mother  made  him  little  crimson  frocks  ;  and  as 
he  wandered  over  the  downs  in  his  red  dress  and  a  white 
pinafore,  his  yellow  hair  flying  in  the  breeze,  his  chin  up,  his 
black  eyes  wide  open,  with  slate  in  one  hand,  his  pencil  in 
the  other,  and  the  sandy  kitten  clinging  to  his  shoulder  (for 
Jan  never  lowered  his  chin  to  help  her  to  balance  herself), 
he  looked  more  like  some  elf  than  a  child  of  man. 

He  had  queer,  independent  ways  of  his  own,  too ;  freaks, 
— not  naughty  enough  for  severe  punishment,  but  sufficiently 
out  of  the  routine  and  unexpected  to  cause  Mrs.  Lake  some 
trouble. 

He  was  no  sooner  firmly  established  on  his  own  legs,  with 
the  power  of  walking,  or  rather  toddling,  independent  of 
help,  than  he  took  to  making  expeditions  on  the  downs  by 
himself.  He  would  watch  his  opportunity,  and  when  his 
foster-mother's  back  was  turned,  and  the  door  of  the  round- 
house opened  by  some  grist^bringer,  he  would  slip  out  and 
toddle  off  with  a  swiftness  decidedly  dangerous  to  a  balance 
so  lately  acquired. 

Sometimes  Mrs.  Lake  would  catch  sight  of  him,  and  if 


58  JAN  OP  THE  WINDMILL. 

her  hands  were  in  the  wash-tub,  or  otherwise  engaged,  she 
would  cry  to  the  nurse-boy,  "  Abel,  he  be  off!  Jan's  oft'." 
A  comic  result  of  which  was  that  Jan  generally  announced 
his  own  departure  in  the  same  words,  though  not  always  loud 
enough  to  bring  detection  upon  himself. 

When  his  chance  came  and  the  door  was  open,  he  would 
pause  for  half  a  moment  on  the  threshold  to  say,  in  a  tone 
of  intense  self-satisfaction,  "  He  be  off.  Abel!  Janny'soff!" 
and  forthwith  toddle  out  as  hard  as  he  could  go.  As  he 
grew  older,  he  dropped  this  form  ;  but  the  elfish  habit  of 
appearing  and  disappearing  at  his  own  whim  was  not  cured. 

It  was  a  puzzle  as  well  as  a  care  to  Mrs.  Lake.  All  her 
own  children  had  given  trouble  in  their  own  way, — a  way 
much  the  same  with  all  of  them.  They  squalled  for  what 
they  wanted,  and,  like  other  mothers  of  her  class,  she  served 
them  whilst  her  patience  lasted,  and  slapped  them  when  it 
came  to  an  end.  They  clung  about  her  when  she  was  cooking, 
in  company  with  the  cats,  and  she  put  tit-bits  into  their  dirty 
paws,  and  threw  scraps  to  the  clean  paws  of  the  cats,  till  the 
nuisance  became  overwhelming,  and  she  kicked  the  cats  and 
slapped  the  children,  who  squalled  for  both.  They  dirted 
their  clothes,  they  squabbled,  they  tore  the  gathers  out  of 
her  dresses,  and  Availed  and  wept,  and  were  beaten  with  a 
hazel-stick  by  their  father,  and  pacified  with  treacle-stick  by 
the  mother ;  and  so  tumbled  up,  one  after  the  other,  through 
childish  customs  and  misdemeanors,  almost  as  uniform  as  the 
steps  of  the  mill-ladders. 

But  the  customs  and  misdemeanors  of  the  foster-child  wsre 
very  different. 

His  appetite  to  be  constantly  eating,  drinking,  or  sucking 
— if  it  were  but  a  bennet  or  grass-stalk — was  less  voracious 
than  that  of  the  other  children.  Mrs.  Lake  gave  him  Ben- 
jamin's share  of  treacle-stick,  but  he  has  been  known  to  give 
some  of  it  away,  and  to  exchange  peppermint-drops  for  a 
slate-pencil  rather  softer  than  his  own.  He  would  have  had 
Benjamin's  share  of  "bits  "  from  the  cupboard,  but  that  the 
other  children  begged  so  much  oftener,  and  Mrs.  Lake  was  not 
capable  of  refusing  anything  to  a  steady  tease.  He  could  walk 
the  whole  length  of  a  turnip  field  without  taking  a  munch, 
unless  he  were  hungry,  though  even  dear  old  Abel  invariably 
exercised  his  jaws  upon  a  "turmut."     And  he  made  himself 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  59 

ill  with  hedge-fruits  and  ground-roots  seldorner  than  any 
other  member  of  the  family. 

So  far,  Jan  gave  less  trouble  than  the  rest.  But  then  he 
had  a  spirit  of  enterprise  which  never  misled  them.  From 
the  effects  of  this,  Abel  saved  his  life  more  than  once.  On 
one  occasion  he  pulled  him  out  of  the  wash-tub,  into  wdiich 
he  had  plunged  head-foremost,  in  a  futile  endeavor  to  blow 
soap-bubbles  through  a  fragment  of  clay-pipe,  which  he  had 
picked  up  on  the  road,  and  which  made  his  lips  sore  for  a 
week,  besides  nearly  causing  his  death  by  drowning. 

From  diving  into  the  deepest  recesses  of  the  windmill  it 
became  hopeless  to  try  to  hinder  him,  and  when  Abel  was 
fairly  taken  into  the  business  Mrs.  Lake  relied  upon  his  care 
for  his  foster-brother.  And  Jan  was  wary  and  nimble,  for 
his  own  part,  and  gave  little  trouble.  His  great  delight  was 
to  gaze  first  out  of  one  window,  and  then  out  of  the  opposite 
one ;  either  blinking  as  the  great  sails  drove  by,  as  if 
they  would  strike  him  in  the  face,  or  watching  the  shadows 
of  them  invisible,  as  they  passed  like  noon-day  ghosts  over 
the  grass. 

His  habit  of  taking  himself  off  on  solitary  expeditions 
neither  the  miller's  hazel-stick  nor  Mrs.  Lake's  treacle-stick 
could  cure  by  force  or  favor. 

One  November  evening,  just  after  tea,  Jan  disappeared, 
and  the  yellow  kitten  also.  When  his  bed-time  came,  Mrs. 
Lake  sought  him  high  and  low,  and  Abel  went  carefully, 
mill-candlestick  in  hand,  through  every  floor,  from  the  mill- 
stones to  the  machinery,  but  in  vain.  Neither  he  nor  the 
kitten  was  to  be  found. 

It  was  when  the  kitten,  in  chase  of  her  own  tail,  tumbled 
in  sideways  through  the  round-house  door,  that  Mrs.  Lake 
remembered  that  Jan  might  possibly  have  gone  out,  and  she 
ran  out  after  him. 

The  air  was  chill  and  fresh,  but  not  bitterly  cold.  The 
moon  rode  high  in  the  dark  heavens,  and  a  flock  of  small 
white  clouds  passed  slowdy  before  its  face  and  spread  over 
the  sky.  The  shadows  of  the  driving  sails  fell  clearly  in 
the  moonlight,  and  flitted  over  the  grass  more  quickly  than 
the  clouds  went  by  the  moon. 

Mrs.  Lake  was  not  susceptible  to  effects  of  scenery  and 
she,  wfts  thinking  of  Jan,     Aj  §h§  ran  round  the.  windmill, 


6o  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

she  struck  her  foot  against  what  proved  to  be  his  body,  and, 
stooping,  saw  that  he  was  lying  on  his  face.  But  when  she 
snatched  him  up  with  a  cry  of  terror,  she  found  that  he  was 
not  dead,  not  even  hurt,  but  only  weeping  pettishly. 

In  the  first  revulsion  of  feeling  from  her  fright,  she  was 
rather  disposed  to  shake  her  recovered  treasure,  as  a  relief 
to  her  own  excitement.  But  Abel,  whose  first  sight  of  Jan 
was  as  the  light  of  the  mill-candle  fell  on  his  tear-stained 
face,  said  tenderly,  "  What  be  amiss,  Janny  ?  " 

"  Jan  can't  make  un,"  sobbed  his  foster-brother. 

"What  can't  Janny  make?  Tell  Abel,  then,"  said  the 
nurse-boy. 

Jan  stuck  his  fists  into  his  eyes,  which  were  drying  fast, 
and  replied,  "  Jan  can't  make  the  moon  and  the  clouds, 
Abel  dear  ! " 

And  Abel's  candle  being  at  that  moment  blown  out  by  a 
gust  of  wind,  he  could  see  Jan's  slate  and  pencil  lying  at 
some  distance  apart  upon  the  short  grass. 

On  the  dark  ground  of  the  slate  he  had  made  a  round, 
white,  full  moon  with  his  soft  slate-pencil,  and  had  tried 
hard  to  draw  each  cloud  as  it  passed.  But  the  rapid  changes 
had  baffled  him,  and  the  pencil-marks  were  gray  compared 
with  the  whiteness  of  the  clouds  and  the  brightness  of  the 
moon,  and  the  slate,  though  dark,  was  a  mockery  of  the 
deep,  deep  depths  of  the  night-sky. 

And  in  his  despair  he  had  flung  the  slate  one.  way  and 
the  pencil  another,  and  there  they  lay  under  the  moonlight; 
and  the  sandy  kitten,  who  could  see  more  clearly  on  this 
occasion  than  any  one  else,  was  dancing  a  fandango  upon 
poor  Jan's  unfinished  sketch. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE   WHITE   HORSE COMROGUES MOERDYK GEORGE 

CONFIDES  IN  THE  CHEAP  JACK WITH  RESERVATION. 

When  the  Cheap  Jack's  horse  came  to  the  brow  of  the  hill, 
it  stopped,  and  with  drooping  neck  stood  still  as  before. 
The  Cheap  Jack  was  busy  with  George,  and  it  was  at  no 
word  from   him  that  the  poor  beast  paused.     It  knew  at 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  6l 

what  point  to  wait,  and  it  waited.  There  was  little  tempta- 
tion to  go  on.  The  road  down  the  hill  had  just  been 
mended  with  flints ;  some  of  these  were  the  size  of  an  aver- 
age turnip,  and  the  hill  was  steep.  So  the  old  horse  poked 
out  his  nose,  and  stood  almost  dozing,  till  the  sound  of  the 
Cheap  Jack's  shuffling  footsteps  caused  him  to  prick  his  ears, 
and  brace  his  muscles  for  a  fresh  start. 

The  miller's  man  came  also,  who  was  sulky,  whilst  the 
Cheap  Jack  was  civil.  He  gave  his  horse  a  cut  across  the 
knees,  to  remind  him  to  plant  his  feet  carefully  among  the 
sharp  boulders ;  and  then,  choosing  a  smooth  bit  by  the  side 
of  the  road,  he  and  George  went  forward  together. 

"  You've  took  to  picters,  I  see,"  said  George,  nodding  to- 
wards the  cart. 

"So  I  have,  my  dear,"  said  the  Cheap  Jack;  "any 
thing  for  a  livelihood;  an  honest  livelihood,  you  know, 
George."  And  he  winked  at  the  miller's  man,  who  relaxed 
his  sulkiness  for  a  guffaw. 

"  You've  had  so  little  in  my  way  lately,  George,"  the 
hunchback  continued,  looking  sharply  sideways  up  at  his 
companion.     "  Sly  business  has  been  slack,  my  dear,  eh  ?  " 

But  George  made  no  answer,  and  the  Cheap  Jack,  after 
relieving  his  feelings  by  another  cut  at  the  horse,  changed 
the  subject. 

"  That's  a  sharp  little  brat  of  the  miller's,"  said  he, 
alluding  to  Jan.  "And  he  ain't  much  like  the  others. 
Old-fashioned,  too.  Children  mostly  likes  the  gay  picters,  and 
worrits  their  mothers  for  'em,  bless  'em !  But  he  picked  out 
an  ancient-looking  thing,_came  from  a  bankrupt  pawnshop, 
my  dear,  in  a  lot.  I  almost  think  I  let  it  go  too  cheap ; 
but  that's  my  failing.  And  a  beggarly  place  like  this  ain't 
like  London.  In  London  there's  a  place  for  every  thing, 
my  dear,  and  shops  for  old  goods  as  well  as  new,  and  cus- 
tomers, too ;  and  the  older  and  dirtier  some  things  is,  the 
more  they  fetches." 

There  was  a  pause,  for  George  did  not  speak;   and  the 

Cheap  Jack,  bent  upon  amiability,  repeated  his  remark, 

"  A  sharp  little  brat,  too !  " 

"  What  be  'ee  harping  on  about  him  for?"  asked  George, 
suspiciously.  "  I  knows  what  I  knows  about  un,  but  that's 
no  business  of  yours." 


62  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

"  You  know  about  most  things,  my  dear,"  said  the  Cheap 
Jack,  flatteringly.  "  They'll  have  to  get  up  very  early  that 
catch  you  napping.     But  what  about  the  child,  George  ?  " 

"  Never  you  mind,"  said  George.  "  But  he  ain't  none 
of  the  miller's,  I'll  tell  'ee  that ;  and  he  ain't  the  missus's 
neither." 

"  What  is  he  to  you,  my  dear  ?  "  asked  the  dwarf,  curi- 
ously, and,  getting  no  answer,  he  went  on :  "  He'd  be 
useful  in  a  good  many  lines.  He'd  not  do  bad  in  a  circus, 
but  he'd  draw  prime  as  a  young  prodigy." 

George  looked  round,  "You  be  thinking  of  stealing  he 
then,  as  well  as  " — 

"Hush,  my  dear,"  said  the  dwarf.  "No,  no,  I  don't 
want  him.  But  there  was  a  good  deal  of  snatching  young 
kids  done  in  my  young  days ;  for  sweeps,  destitute  orphans, 
juvenile  performers,  and  so  on." 

"  He  wouldn't  suit  you,"  grinned  George.  "A  comes 
of  genteel  folk,  and  a's  not  hard  enough  for  how  you'd 
treat  un." 

"You're  out  there,  George,"  said  the  dwarf.  "Human 
beings  is  like  'osses ;  it's  the  genteelest  as  stands  the  most. 
'Specially  if  they've  been  well  fed  when  they  was  babies." 

At  this  point  the  Cheap  Jack  was  interrupted  by  his 
horse  stumbling  over  a  huge,  jagged  lump  of  flint,  that, 
with  the  rest  of  the  road-mending,  was  a  disgrace  to  a  high- 
way of  a  civilized  country.  A.  rate-payer  or  a  horse-keeper 
might  have  been  excused  for  losing  his  temper  with  the  au- 
thorities of  the  road-mending  department ;  .but  the  Cheap 
Jack's  wrath  fell  upon  his  horse.  He  beat  him  over  the 
knees  for  stumbling,  and  across  the  hind  legs  for  slipping, 
and  over  his  face  for  wincing,  and  accompanied  his  blows 
with  a  torrent  of  abuse. 

What  a  moment  that  must  have  been  for  Balaam's  ass, 
in  which  she  found  voice  to  remonstrate  against  the  unjust 
blows,  which  have,  nevertheless,  fallen  pretty  thickly 
ever  since  upon  her  descendants  and  their  fellow-servants 
of  ungrateful  man  !  From  how  many  patient  eyes  that  old 
reproach,  of  long  service  ill-requited,  yet  speaks  almost  as 
plainly  as  the  voice  that  "  rebuked  the  madness  of  the 
prophet ! " 

The  Cheap  Jack's  white  horse  ha4  a  point  of  reseniblajicQ 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  63 

to  the  "  genteel  human  beings"  of  whom  he  had  been  speak- 
ing. It  had  "  come  of  a  good  stock,"  and  had  seen  better 
and  kinder  days  ;  and  to  it,  also,  in  its  misfortunes,  there 
remained  that  nobility  of  spirit  which  rises  in  proportion  to 
the  ills  it  meets  with.  The  poor  old  thing  was  miserably 
weak,  and  sore  and  jaded,  and  the  flints  were  torture.  But 
it  rallied  its  forces,  gave  a  desperate  struggle,  and  got  the 
cart  safely  to  the  bottom  of  the  hill.  Here  the  road  turned 
sharply,  and  the  horse  went  on.  But  after  a  few  paces  it 
stopped  as  before;  this  time  in  front  of  a  small  public-house, 
where  trembling,  and  bathed  in  perspiration,  it  waited  for  its 
master. 

The  public-house  was  a  small  dark,  dingy-looking  hovel, 
with  a  reputation  fitted  to  its  appearance. 

A  dirty,  grim-looking  man  nodded  to  the  Cheap  Jack  and 
George  as  they  entered,  and  a  girl  equally  dirty,  but  much 
handsomer,  brought  glasses  of  spirits,  to  which  the  friends 
applied  themselves,  at  the  Cheap  Jack's  expense.  George 
grew  more  sociable,  and  the  Cheap  Jack  reproached  him  with 
want  of  confidence  in  his  friends. 

"  You're  so  precious  sharp,  my  dear,"  said  the  hunchback, 
who  knew  well  on  what  point  George  liked  to  be  flattered, 
that  you  overreaches  yourself.  I  don't  complain — after  all 
the  business  we've  done  together — that  it's  turned  slack  all 
of  a  sudden.  You  says  they're  down  on  you,  and  that's 
enough  for  me.  I  don't  complain  that  you've,  got  your  own 
plans  and  keeps  'em  as  secret  as  the  grave,  but  I  says  you'll 
regret  it.  If  you  -was  a  good  scholar,  George,  you  could  do 
without  friends,  you're  so  precious  sharp.  But  you're  no 
scholar,  my  dear,  and  you'll  be  let  in  yet,  by  a  wrorse  friend 
than  Cheap  John. 

George  so  bitterly  regretted  his  want  of  common  learning, 
and  the  stupidity  wbijn  made  him  still  slow  to  decipher  print, 
and  utterly  puzzled  by  writing,  that  the  Cheap  Jack's  re- 
marks told  strong!  /.  These,  and  the  conversation  they  had 
had  on  the  hill,  reiSflOfed  to  his  mind  a  matter  which  was  still 
a  mystery  to  the  nailer's  man. 

"  Look  here,  Jack,"  %md  he,  leaning  across  the  dirty  little 
table  ;  "  if  you  be  such  a  juod  scholar,  what  doMOERD 
Y  K  spell  ?  " 

"  Say  it  again,  George,"  said  the  dwarf.     But  when,  after 


64  JAN  OP  THE  WINDMILL. 

that,  he  still  looked  puzzled,  George  laughed  long  and  loudly. 

"  You  be  a  good  scholar  !  "  he  cried.  "  You  be  a  fine 
friend,  too,  for  a  iggerant  man.  If  a  can't  tell  the  first  word 
of  a  letter,  'tis  likely  'ee  could  read  the  whole,  too !  " 

"  The  first  word  of  a  letter,  eh  ?  "  said  the  dwarf. 

"  The  very  first,"  said  George.  "  'Tis  a  long  way  you'd 
get  in  it,  and  stuck  at  the  start ! " 

"Up  in  the  corner,  at  the  top,  eh?"  said  the  dwarf. 

"So  it  be,"  said  George,  and  he  laughed  no  longer. 

"  It's  the  name  of  a  place,  then,"  said  the  Cheap  Jack  ; 
"  and  it  ain't  to  be  expected  I  should  know  the  names  of  all 
the  places  in  the  world,  George,  my  dear." 

It  was  a  great  triumph  for  the  Cheap  Jack,  as  George's 
face  betrayed.  If  George  had  trusted  him  a  little  more,  he 
might  have  known  the  meaning  of  the  mysterious  word  years 
ago.  The  name  of  a  place  !  The  place  from  which  the 
letter  was  written.  The  place  where  something  might  be 
learned  about  the  writer  of  the  letter,  and  of  the  gentleman 
to  whom  it  was  written.  For  George  knew  so  much.  It 
was  written  to  a  gentleman,  and  to  a  gentleman  who  had 
money,  and  who  had  secrets;  and,  therefore,  a  gentleman 
from  whom  money  might  be  got,  by  interfering  in  his 
secrets. 

The  miller's  man  was  very  ignorant  and  very  stupid,  in 
spite  of  a  certain  low  cunning  not  at  all  incompatible  with 
gross  ignorance.  He  had  no  knowledge  of  the  world.  His 
very  knowledge  of  malpractices  and  mischief  was  confined  to 
the  evil  doings  of  one  or  two  other  ill-conditioned  country 
lads  like  himself,  who  robbed  their  neighbors  on  dark  nights, 
and  disposed  of  the  spoil  by  the  help  of  such  men  as  the 
Cheap  Jack  and  the  landlord  of  the  public-house  at  the 
bottom  of  the  hill. 

But  by  loitering  about  on  that  stormy  night  years  ago, 
when  he  should  have  been  attending  to  the  mill,  he  had  picked 
up  enough  to  show  him  that  the  strange  gentleman  had  no 
mind  to  have  his  proceedings  as  to  the  little  Jan  generally 
known.  This  and  some  sort  of  traditional  idea  that  "  sharp," 
though  penniless  men  had  at  times  wrung  a  great  deal  of 
money  from  rich  people,  by  threatening  to  betray  their  secrets, 
was  the  sole  foundation  of  George's  hopes  in  connection  with 
the  letter.     It  was  his  very  ignorance  which  hindered  him 


JAN  OP  THE  WINDMILL  65 

from  seeing  the  innumerable  chances  against  his  getting  to 
know  any  thing  important  enough,  even  if  he  could  use  his 
information,  to  procure  a  bribe. 

He  had  long  given  up  the  idea  as  hopeless,  though  he  has 
kept  the  letter,  but  it  revived  when  the  Cheap  Jack  solved 
the  puzzle  which  Abel  could  not  explain,  and  George  finally 
pi*omised  to  let  his  friend  read  the  whole  letter  for  him.  He 
also  allowed  that  it  concerned  Jan,  or  that  he  supposed  it  to 
do  so.  He  related  Jan's  history,  and  confessed  that  he  had 
picked  up  the  letter,  which  was  being  blown  about  near  the 
mill,  on  the  night  of  Jan's  arrival. 

In  this  statement  there  was  some  truth,  and  some  false- 
hood ;  for  in  the  opinion  of  the  miller's  man,  if  your  own 
interest  obliged  you  to  confide  in  a  friend,  it  was  at  least  wise 
to  hedge  the  confidence  by  not  telling  all  the  truth,  or  by 
qualifying  it  with  lies. 

This  mental  process  was,  however,  at  least  equally  familiar 
to  the  Cheap  Jack,  and  he  did  not  hesitate,  in  his  own  mind, 
to  feel  sure  that  the  letter  had  not  been  found,  but  stolen.  In 
which  he  was  farther  from  the  truth  than  if  he  had  simply 
believed  George. 

But  then  he  was  not  in  the  neighborhood  five  years  back, 
and,  as  it  happened,  he  had  never  heard  of  the  lost  pocket- 
book. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

GEORGE  AS  A  MONEYED  MAN SAL. THE  "  "WHITE  HORSE." 

THE    WEDDING. — THE    WINDMILLER'S    WIFE    FORGETS, 

AND  REMEMBERS  TOO  LATE. 

Excitement,  the  stifling  atmosphere  of  the  publicJiouse, 
and  the  spirits  he  had  drunk  at  his  friend's  expense,  had 
somewhat  confused  the  brains  of  the  miller's  man  by  the 
time  that  the  Cheap  Jack  rose  to  go.  George  was,  as  a  rule, 
sober  beyond  the  wont  of  the  rustics  of  the  district,  chiefly 
from  parsimony.  When  he  could  drink  at  another  man's 
expense,  he  was  not  always  prudent. 

"  So  you've  settled  to  go,  my  dear?"  said  the  dwarf,  as 
S 


66  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

they  stood  together  by  the  cart.  "  Business  being  slack,  and 
parties  unpleasantly  suspicious,  eh  ?  " 

"  Never  you  mind,"  said  George,  who  felt  very  foolish,  and 
hoped  himself  successful  in  looking  very  wise  ;  "  I  be  going 
to  set  up  for  myself;  I'm  tired  of  slaving  for  another  man." 

"  Quite  right,  too,"  said  the  dwarf;  "  but  all  businesses  takes 
money,  of  which,  my  dear,  I  doesn't  doubt  you've  plenty. 
You  always  took  care  of  Number  One,  when  you  did  busi- 
ness with  Cheap  John." 

At  that  moment,  George  felt  himself  a  sort  of  embodiment 
of  shrewd  wisdom  ;  he  had  taken  another  sip  from  the  glass, 
which  was  still  in  his  hand,  and  the  only  drawback  to  the 
sense  of  magnified  cunning  by  which  his  ideas  seemed  to  be 
illumined  was  a  less  pleasant  feeling  that  they  were  perpetu- 
ally slipping  from  his  grasp.  To  the  familiar  idea  of  out- 
witting the  Cheap  Jack  he  held  fast,  however. 

"  It  be  nothin'  to  thee  what  a  have,"  he  said  slowly  ;  "  but 
a  don't  mind  'ee  knowin'  so  much,  Jack,  because  'ee  can't 
get  at  un ;  haw,  haw !  Not  unless  'ee  robs  the  savings- 
bank." 

The  dwarf's  eyes  twinkled,  and  he  affected  to  secure  some 
pictures  that  hung  low,  as  he  said  carelessly, — 

"  Savings-banks  be  good  places  for  a  poor  man  to  lay  by 
in.  They  takes  small  sums,  and  a  few  shillings  comes  in 
useful  to  a  honest  man,  George,  my  dear,  if  they  doesn't  go 
far  in  business." 

"  Shillings  !  "  cried  George,  indignantly  ;  "  pounds  !  " 
And  then,  doubtful  if  he  had  not  said  too  much,  he  added, 
"A  don't  so  much  mind  'ee  knowing,  Jack,  because  'ee  can't 
get  at  'em  !  " 

"  It's  a  pity  you're  such  a  poor  scholar,  George,"  said  the 
Cheap  Jack,  turning  round,  and  looking  full  at  his  friend ; 
"  you're  so  sharp,  but  for  that,  my  dear.  You  don't  think 
you  counts  the  money  over  in  your  head  till  youmakesit  out 
more  than  it  is,  now,  eh  ?  " 

"A  can  keep  things  in  my  yead,"  said  George,  "  better  than 
most  folks  can  keep  a  book  ;  I  knows  what  I  has,  and  what 
other  folks  can't  get  at.  I  knows  how  I  put  un  in.  First, 
the  five-pound  bill  " — 

"  They  must  have  stared  to  see  you  bring  five  pound  in  a 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  67 

lump,  George,  my  dear  ! "  said  the  hunchback.  "  "Was  it 
wise,  do  you  think?" 

"  Gearge  bean't  such  a  vool  as  a  looks,"  replied  the  miller's 
man.  "A  took  good  care  to  change  it  first,  Cheap  John,  and 
a  put  it  in  by  bits." 

"  You're  a  clever  customer,  George,"  said  his  friend. 
"Well,  my  dear?     First,  the  five-pound  bill,  and  then?" 

George  looked  puzzled,  and  then,  suddenly,  angry. 
"  What  be  that  to  you  ?  "  he  asked,  and  forthwith  relapsed 
into  a  sulky  fit,  from  which  the  Cheap  Jack  found  it  impos- 
sible to  rouse  him.  All  attempts  to  renew  the  subject,  or  to 
induce  the  miller's  man  to  talk  at  all,  proved  fruitless.  The 
Cheap  Jack  insisted,  however,  on  taking  a  friendly  leave. 

"  Good-by,  my  dear,"  said  he,  "  till  the  mop.  You 
knows  my  place  in  the  town,  and  I  shall  expect  you." 

The  miller's  man  only  replied  by  a  defiant  nod,  which  pos- 
sibly meant  that  he  would  come,  but  had  some  appearance 
of  expressing  only  a  sarcastic  wish  that  the  Cheap  Jack 
might  see  him  on  the  occasion  alluded  to. 

In  obedience  to  a  yell  from  its  master,  the  white  horse 
now  started  forward,  and  it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  the 
journey  to  town  was  not  made  more  pleasant  for  the  poor 
beast  by  the  fact  that  the  Cheap  Jack  had  a  good  deal  of 
long-suppressed  fury  to  vent  upon  somebody. 

It  was  perhaps  well  for  the  bones  of  the  white  horse  that, 
just  as  they  entered  the  town,  the  Cheap  Jack  brushed 
against  a  woman  on  the  narrow  foot-path,  who  having 
turned  to  remonstrate  in  no  very  civil  terms,  suddenly 
checked  herself,  and  said  in  a  low  voice,  "Juggling  Jack!  " 

The  dwarf  started,  and  looked  at  the  woman  with  a  puz- 
zled air. 

She  was  a  middle-aged  woman,  in  the  earlier  half  of  mid- 
dle age  ;  she  was  shabbily  dressed,  and  had  a  face  that 
would  not  have  been  ill-looking,  but  that  the  upper  lip  was 
long  and  cleft,  and  the  lower  one  unusually  large.  As  the 
Cheap  Jack  still  stared  in  silence,  she  burst  into  a  noisy 
laugh,  saying,  "  More  know  Jack  the  Fool  than  Jack  the 
Fool  knows."  But,  even  as  she  spoke,  a  gleam  of  recogni- 
tion suddenly  spread  over  the  hunchback's  face,  and,  putting 
out  his  hand,  he  said,  "  Sal !  ^qu  here,  my  dear  ? " 


68  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

"  The  air  of  London  don't  agree  with  me  just  now,"  was 
the  reply ;  "  and  how  are  you,  Jack  ?  " 

"  The  country  air's  just  beginning  to  disagree  with  me,  my 
dear,"  said  the  hunchback  ;  "but  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  Sal. 
Come  in  here,  my  dear,  and  let's  have  a  talk,  and  a  little  re- 
freshment." 

The  place  of  refreshment  to  which  the  dwarf  alluded  was 
another  public-house,  the  "White  Horse  by  name.  There 
was  no  need  to  bid  the  Cheap  Jack's  white  horse  to  pauss 
here  ;  he  stopped  of  himself  at  every  public-house  ;  nineteen 
times  out  of  twenty  to  the  great  convenience  of  his  master, 
for  which  he  got  no  thanks ;  the  twentieth  time  the  hunch- 
back did  not  want  to  stop,  and  he  was  lavish  of  abuse  of  the 
beast's  stupidity  in  coming  to  a  standstill. 

The  white  horse  drooped  his  soft  white  nose  and  weary 
neck  for  a  long,  long  time  under  the  effigy  of  his  namesake 
swinging  overhead,  and  when  the  Cheap  Jack  did  come  out, 
he  seemed  so  preoccupied  that  the  tired  beast  got  home  with 
fewer  blows  than  usual. 

He  unloaded  his  cart  mechanically,  as  if  in  a  dream  j  but 
when  he  touched  the  pictures,  they  seemed  to  awaken  a 
fresh  train  of  thought.  He  stamped  one  of  his  little  feet 
spitefully  on  the  ground,  and,  with  a  pretty  close  imitation 
of  George's  dialect,  said  bitterly,  "  Gearge  bean't  such  a 
vool  as  a  looks!"  adding,  after  a  pause,  "I'd  do  a  deal  to 
pay  him  off ! " 

As  he  turned  into  the  house,  he  said  thoughtfully,  "  Sal's 
precious  sharp  ;  she  alius  was.  And  a  fine  woman,  too,  is 
Sal!" 

Not  long  after  the  incidents  just  related,  it  happened  that 
business  called  Mrs.  Lake  to  the  neighboring  town„  She 
seldom  went  out,  but  a  well  to-do  aunt  was  sick,  and  wished 
to  see  her  ;  and  the  miller  gave  his  consent  to  her  going. 

She  met  the  milk-cart  at  the  corner  of  the  road,  and  so 
was  driven  to  the  town,  and  she  took  Jan  with  her. 

He  had  begged  hard  to  go,  and  was  intensely  amused  by 
all  he  saw.  The  young  Lakes  were  so  thoroughly  in  the 
habit  of  taking  every  thing,  whether  commonplace  or  curi- 
ou%  in  the  same  phlegmatic  fashion,  that  Jan's  pleasure  was 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  69 

a  new  pleasure  to  his  foster-mother,  and  they  enjoyed  them- 
selves greatly. 

As  they  were  making  their  way  towards  the  inn  where 
they  were  to  pick  up  a  neighbor,  in  whose  cart  they  were  to 
be  driven  home,  their  progress  was  hindered  by  a  crowd, 
whicli  had  collected  near  one  of  the  churches. 

Mrs.  Lake  was  one  of  those  people  who  lead  colorless 
lives,  and  are  without  mental  resources,  to  whom  a  calamity 
is  almost  delightful,  from  the  stimulus  it  gives  to  the  imagi- 
nation, and  the  relief  it  affords  to  the  monotony  of  existence. 

"  Oh,  dear !  oh,  dear  !  "  she  cried,  peering  through  the 
crowd  :  "  I  wonder  what  it  is.  'Tis  likely  'tis  a  man  in  a  fit 
now,  I  shouldn't  wonder,  or  a  cart  upset,  and  every  soul 
killed,  as  it  might  be  ourselves  going  home  this  very  even- 
ing. Dear,  dear !  'tis  a  venturesome  thing  to  leave  home, 
too !  " 

"  'Ere  they  be  !  'ere  they  be  !  "  roared  a  wave  of  the 
crowd,  composed  of  boys,  breaking  on  Mrs.  Lake  and  Jan  at 
this  point. 

"  'Tis  the  body,  sure  as  death  !  "  murmured  the  wind- 
miller's  wife  ;  but,  as  she  spoke,  the  street  boys  set  up  a 
lusty  cheer,  and  Jan,  who  had  escaped  to  explore  on  his  own 
account,  came  running  back,  crying, — 

"  'Tis  the  Cheap  Jack,  mammy  !  and  he's  been  getting 
married." 

If  any  thing  could  have  rivalled  the  interest  of  a  sudden 
death  for  Mrs.  Lake,  it  must  have  been  such  a  w:edding  as 
this.  She  hurried  to  the  front,  and  was  just  in  time  to 
catch  sight  of  the  happy  couple  as  they  passed  down  the 
street,  escorted  by  a  crowd  of  congratulating  boys. 

"  Well  done,  Cheap  John ! "  roared  one.  "  You've 
chose  a  beauty,  you  have,"  cried  another.  "  She's  'arf  a 
'ead  taller,  anyway,"  added  a  third.  |*  Many  happy  returns 
of  the  day,  Jack  !  "  yelled  a  fourth. 

Jan  was  charmed,  and  again  and  again  he  drew  Mrs. 
Lake's  attention  to  the  fact  that  it  really  teas  the  Cheap  Jack. 

But  the  windmiller's  wife  was  staring  at  the  bride.  Not 
merely  because  the  bride  is  commonly  considered  the  cen- 
tral figure  of  a  wedding-party,  but  because  her  face  seemed 
familiar  to  Mrs.  Lake,  and  she  could  not  remember  where 
she  had  seen  her.     Though  she  could  remember  nothing,  the 


7©  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

association  seemed  to  be  one  of  pain.  In  vain  she  beat  her 
brains.  Memory  was  an  almost  uncultivated  quality  with 
her,  and,  like  the  rest  of  her  intellectual  powers,  had  a  ner- 
vous, skittish  way  of  deserting  her  in  need,  as  if  from 
timidity. 

Mrs.  Lake  could  sometimes  remember  things  when  she 
got  into  bed,  but  on  this  occasion  her  pillow  did  not  assist 
her ;  and  the  windmiller  snubbed  her  for  making  "  such  a 
caddie "  about  a  woman's  face  she  might  have  seen  any 
where  or  nowhere,  for  that  matter ;  so  she  got  no  help  from 
him. 

And  it  was  not  till  after  the  Cheap  Jack  and  his  wife  had 
left  the  neighborhood,  that  one  night  (she  was  in  bed)  it 
suddenly  "  came  to  her,"  as  she  said,  that  the  dwarfs  bride 
was  the  woman  who  had  brought  Jan  to  the  mill,  on  the 
night  of  the  great  storm. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

SUBLUNARY     ART JAN     GOES     TO     SCHOOL DAME     DAT- 

CHETT     AT     HOME JAN'S   FIRST    SCHOOL    SCRAPE JAN 

DEFENDS    HIMSELF. 

Even  the  hero  of  a  tale  cannot  always  be  heroic,  nor  of 
romantic  or  poetic  tastes. 

The  wonderful  beauty  of  the  night  sky  and  the  moon 
had  been  fully  felt  by  the  artist-nature  of  the  child  Jan ;  but 
about  this  time  he  took  to  the  study  of  a  totally  different 
subject, — pigs. 

It  was  the  force  of  circumstances  which  led  Jan  to  "make 
pigs  "  on  his  slate  so  constantly,  instead  of  nobler  subjects ; 
and  it  dated  from  the  time  when  his  foster-mother  began  to 
send  him  with  the  other  children  to  school  at  Dame  Dat- 
chett's. 

Dame  Datchett's  cottage  was  the  last  house  on  one  side  of 
the  village  main  street.  It  was  low,  thatched,  creeper-cov- 
ered, and  had  only  one  floor,  and  two  rooms, — the  outer 
room  where  the  Dame  kept  her  school,  and  the  inner  one 
Where  she  slept.     Dame    Datchett's  scholars    were    very 


"'TIS  A  Q,  NOT  A  F,"  HE  SAID  BOLDLY  AND  ALOUD.     A 

Page  71. 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  71 

young,  and  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  the  chief  objects  of  their 
parents  in  paying  for  their  schooling  were  to  insure  their 
being  kept  safely  out  of  the  way  for  a  certain  portion  of  each 
day,  and  the  saving  of  wear  and  tear  to  clothes  and  shoes. 
It  is  to  be  hoped  so,  because  this  much  of  discipline  was  to 
some  extent  accomplished.  As  to  learning,  Dame  Datchett 
had  little  enough  herself,  and  was  quite  unable  to  impart 
even  that,  except  to  a  very  industrious  and  intelligent  pupil. 

Her  school  appurtenances  were  few  and  simple.  From  one 
of  them  arose  Jan's  first  scrape  at  school.  It  was  a  long, 
narrow  blackboard,  on  which  the  alphabet  had  once  been 
painted  white,  though  the  letters  were  now  so  faded  that  the 
Dame  could  no  longer  distinguish  them,  even  in  spectacles. 

The  scrape  came  about  thus. 

As  he  stood  at  the  bottom  of  the  little  class  which  gath- 
ered in  a  semicircle  around  the  Danr  ~>'s  chair,  his  young  eyes 
could  see  the  faded  letters  quite  cleany,  though  the  Dame's 
could  not. 

"  Say  th'  alphabet,  children !  "  cried  Dame  Datchett ;  and 
as  the  class  shouted  the  names  of  the  letters  alter  her,  she 
made  a  show  of  pointing  to  each  with  a  long  "sally  withy" 
wand  cut  from  one  of  the  willows  in  the  water-meadows 
below.  She  ran  the  sallywithy  along  the  board  at  what  she 
esteemed  a  judicious  rate,  to  keep  pace  with  the  shouted 
alphabet,  but,  as  she  could  not  see  the  letters,  her  tongue  and 
her  wand  were  not  in  accord.  Little  did  the  wide-mouthed, 
white-headed  youngsters  of  the  village  heed  this,  but  it 
troubled  Jan's  eyes  ;  and  when — in  consequence  of  her  rub- 
bing her  nose  with  her  disengaged  hand — the  sallywithy 
slipped  to  Q  as  the  Dame  cried  F,  Jan  brought  the  lore  he 
had  gained  from  Abel  to  bear  upon  her  inaccuracy. 

"  'Tis  a  Q,  not  a  F,"  he  said,  boldly  and  aloud. 

A  titter  ran  through  the  class,  and  the  biggest  and  stupid- 
est boy  found  the  joke  so  overwhelming  that  he  stretched  his 
mouth  from  ear  to  ear,  and  doubled  himself  up  with  laugh- 
ter, till  it  looked  as  if  his  corduroy-breeched  knee  were  a 
turnip,  and  he  about  to  munch  it. 

The  Dame  dropped  her  sallywithy  and  began  to  feel  under 
her  chair. 

"  Which  be  the  young  varment  as  said  a  F  was  a  Q  ? "  she 
rather  unfairly  inquired. 


?2  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

"A  didn't  say  a  F  was  a  Q  " — began  Jan  ;  but  a  chorus 
of  cowardly  little  voices  drowned  him,  and  curried  favor 
with  the  Dame  by  crying,  "  'Tis  Jan  Lake,  the  miller's  son, 
missus." 

And  the  big  boy,  conscious  of  his  own  breach  of  good 
manners,  atoned  for  it  by  officiously  dragging  Jan  to  Dame 
Datchett's  elbow. 

"  Hold  un  vor  me,"  said  the  Dame,  settling  her  spectacles 
firmly  on  her  nose. 

And  with  infinite  delight  the  great  booby  held  Jan  to 
receive  his  thwacks  from  the  strap  which  the  Dame  had  of 
late  years  substituted  for  the  birch  rod.  And  as  Jan  writhed, 
he  chuckled  as  heartily  as  before,  it  being  an  amiable  feature 
in  the  character  of  such  clowns  that,  so  long  as  they  can 
enjoy  a  guffaw  at  somebody's  expense,  the  subject  of  their 
ridicule  is  not  a  matter  of  much  choice  or  discrimination. 

After  the  first  a^igry  sob,  Jan  set  his  teeth  and  bore  his 
punishment  in  a  proud  silence,  quite  incomprehensible  by  the 
small  rustics  about  him,  who,  like  the  pigs  of  the  district, 
were  in  the  habit  of  crying  out  in  good  time  before  they 
were  hurt  as  a  preventive  measure. 

Strangely  enough,  it  gave  the  biggest  boy  the  impression 
that  Jan^was  "poor-spirited,"  and  unable  to  take  his  own 
part, — a    temptation  to  bully  him  too  strong  to  be  resisted. 

So  when  the  school  broke  up,  and  the  children  were  scat- 
tering over  the  road  and  water-meads,  the  wide-mouthed  boy 
came  up  to  Jan  and  snatched  his  slate  from  him. 

"  Give  Jan  his  slate ! "  cried  Jan,  indignantly. 

He  was  five  years  old,  but  the  other  was  seven,  and  he 
held  the  slate  above  his  head. 

"And  Avho  be  Jan,  then,  thee  little  gallus-bird  ?  "  said  he, 
tauntingly. 

"  I  be  Jan !  "  answered  the  little  fellow,  defiantly.  "  Jan 
Lake,  the  miller's  son.     Give  I  his  slate  !  " 

"  Thee's  not  a  miller's  son,"  said  the  other;  and  the  rest 
of  the  children  began  to  gather  round. 

"I  be  a  miller's  son,"  reiterated  Jan.  "And  I've  got  a 
miller's  thumb,  too  ; "  and  he  turned  up  his  little  thumb  for 
confirmation  of  the  fact. 

"  Thee's  not  a  miller's  son,"  repeated  the  other,  with  a 
grin.     "  Thee's  nobody's  child,  thee  is.     Master  Lake's  not 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  73 

thy  vather,  nor  Mrs.  Lake  bean't  thy  mother.  Thee  was 
brought  to  the  mill  in  a  sack  of  grist,  thee  was." 

In  saying  which,  the  boy  repeated  a  popular  version  of 
Jan's  history. 

If  any  one  had  been  present  outside  Dame  Datchett's 
cottage  at  that  moment  who  had  been  in  the  windmill  when 
Jan  first  came  to  it,  he  "would  have  seen  a  likeness  so  vivid 
between  the  face  of  the  child  and  the  face  of  the  man  who 
brought  him  to  the  mill  as  would  have  seemed  to  clear  up  at 
least  one  point  of  the  mystery  of  his  parentage. 

Pride  and  wrath  convulsed  every  line  of  the  square, 
quaint  face,  and  seemed  to  narrow  it  to  the  likeness  of  the 
man's,  as,  with  his  black  eyes  blazing  with  passion,  Jan  flew 
at  his  enemy. 

The  boy  still  held  Jan's  slate  on  high,  and  with  a  derisive 
"  haw  !  haw  ! "  he  brought  it  down  heavily  above  Jan's  head. 
But  Jan's  eye  was  quick,  and  very  true.  He  dodged  the 
blow,  which  fell  on  the  boy's  own  knees,  and  then  flew  at 
him  like  a  kitten  in  a  tiger  fury. 

They  were  both  small  and  easily  knocked  over,  and  in  an 
instant  they  were  sprawling  on  the  road,  and  cuffing,  and 
pulling,  and  kicking,  and  punching  with  about  equal  success, 
except  that  the  bigger  boy  prudently  roared  and  howled  all 
the  time,  in  the  hope  of  securing  some  assistance  in  his 
favor. 

"  Dame  Datchett !  Missus !  Murder !  Yah  !  Boohoo  J 
The  little  varment  be  a  throttling  I." 

But  Mrs.  Datchett  was  deaf.  Also,  she  not  unnaturally 
considered  that,  in  looking  after  "  the  young  varments "  in 
school-hours,  she  fully  earned  their  weekly  pence,  and  was  by 
no  means  bound  to  disturb  herself  because  they  squabbled  in 
the  street. 

Meanwhile  Jan  gradually  got  the  upper  hand  of  his  lub- 
berly and  far  from  courageous  opponent,  whose  smock  he 
had  nearly  torn  off  his  back.  He  had  not  spent  any  of  his 
breath  in  calling  for  aid,  but  now,  in  reply  to  the  boy's  cries 
for  mercy  and  release,  he  shouted,  "  What  be  my  name,  now, 
thee  big  gawney?     Speak,  or  I'll  drottle  'ee." 

"  Jan  Lake,"  said  his  vanquished  foe.  "  Let  me  go  I 
Yah !  yah  !  " 

"  Whose  son  be  I  ?  "  asked  the  remorseless  Jant 


74  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

"Abel  Lake's,  the  miller !  Boolioo,  boolioo  !  "  sobbed  the 
boy. 

"And  what  be  tins,  then,  Willum  Smith?"  was  Jan's 
final  question,  as  he  brought  his  thumb  close  to  his  enemy's 
eye. 

"It  be  the  miller's  thumb  thee's  got,  Jan  Lake,"  was  the 
satisfactory  answer. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

■WILLUM    GIVES   JAN    SOME    ADVICE THE    CLOCK   FACE 

THE     HORNET     AND     THE     DAME JAN     DRAWS     PIGS 

JAN    AND    HIS    PATRONS KITTY    CHUTER THE    FIGHT. 

MASTER   CHUTER'S    PREDICTION. 

Jan  went  back  to  school.  Though  his  foster-mother  was 
indignant,  and  ready  to  do  battle  both  with  Dame  Datchett  and 
with  William  Smith's  aunt  (with  whom,  in  lieu  of  parents, 
the  boy  lived),  and  though  Abel  expressed  his  anxiety  to  go 
down  and  "teach  "Willum  to  vight  one  of  his  zize,"  Jan 
steadily  rejected  their  help,  and  said  manfully,  "  Jan  bean't 
feared  of  un.     I  whopped  un,  I  did." 

So  Mrs.  Lake  doctored  his  bruises,  and  sent  him  off  to 
school  again.  She  yielded  the  more  readily  that  she  felt 
certain  that  the  windmiller  would  not  take  the  child's  part 
against  the  Dame. 

No  further  misfortune  befell  him.  William,  if  loutish  and 
a  bit  of  a  bully  on  occasion^  was  not  an  ill-natured  child ; 
and,  having  a  turn  for  humor  of  a  broad,  unintellectual  sort, 
he  and  Jan  became  rather  friendly  on  the  common,  but  rep- 
rehensible ground  of  playing  pranks,  winch  kept  the  school 
in  a  titter  and  the  Dame  in  doubt.  And,  if  detected,  they 
did  not  think  a  dose  of  the  strap  by  any  means  too  high  a 
price  to  pay  for  their  fun. 

For  William's  sufferings  under  that  instrument  of  disci- 
pline were  not  to  be  measured  by  his  doleful  bowlings  and 
roarings,  nor  even  by  his  ready  tears. 

"  What  be  'ee  so  voolish  for  as  to  say  nothin'  when  her 
Vyollops  'ee  ? "  he  asked  of  Jan,  in  a  very  friendly  spirit, 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  75 

one  day.  "  Thee  should  holler  as  loud  as  'ee  can.  Them 
that  hollers  and  cries  murder  she  soon  stops  for,  does  Dame 
Datchett.  She  be  feared  of  their  mothers  hearing  'em,  and 
comin'  after  'em." 

Jan  could  not  lower  himself  to  accept  such  base  advice  ; 
but  his  superior  adroitness  did  much  to  balance  the  advan- 
tage William  had  over  him,  in  a  less  scrupulous  pride. 

As  to  learning,  I  fear  that,  after  the  untoward  conse- 
quences of  his  zeal  for  the  alphabet,  Jan  made  no  effort  to 
learn  any  thing  but  cat's-cradle  from  his  neighbors. 

On  one  other  occasion,  indeed,  he  was  somewhat  over- 
zealous,  and  only  escaped  the  strap  for  his  reward  by  a 
friendly  diversion  on  the  part  of  his  friend.  The  Dame  had 
a  Dutch  clock  in  the  corner  of  her  kitchen,  the  figures  on 
the  face  of  which  were  the  common  Arabic  ones,  and  not 
Roman.  And  as  one  of  the  few  things  the  Dame  professed 
was  to  "teach  the  clock,"  she  would,  when  the  tigures  had 
been  recited  after  the  fashion  hi  which  her  scholars  shouted 
over  the  alphabet,  set  those  who  had  advanced  to  the  use  of 
slates  to  copy  the  figures  from  the  clock-face. 

Slowly  and  sorrowfully  did  William  toil  over  this  lesson. 
Again  and  again  did  he  rub  out  his  ill-proportioned  fives, 
with  so  greasy  a  finger  and  such  a  superabundance  of  moist- 
ure as  to  make  a  sort  of  puddle,  into  which  he  dug  heavily, 
and  broke  two  pencils. 

"  A  vive  be  such  an  akkerd  vigger,"  he  muttered,  in  re- 
ply to  Jan,  who  had  looked  up  inquiringly  as  the  second 
pencil  snapped.  "  'Twill  come  aal  right,  though,  when  a 
dries." 

It  did  dry,  but  any  thing  but  right.  Jan  rubbed  out  the 
mass  of  thick  and  blotted  strokes,  and  when  the  Dame  was 
not  looking,  he  made  William's  figures  for  him.  Jan  was 
behindhand  in  spelling,  but  to  copy  figures  was  no  difficulty 
to  him. 

Having  helped  his  friend  thus,  he  pulled  his  smock,  to 
draw  attention  to  his  own  slate.  The  other  children  wrote 
so  slowly  that  time  had  hung  heavy  on  his  hands;  and,  in- 
stead of  copying  the  figures  in  a  row,  he  had  made  a  draw- 
ing of  the  clock-face,  with  the  figures  on  it ;  but  instead  of 
the  hands,  he  had  put  eyes,  nose,  and  mouth,  and  below  the 
mouth  a  round  gray  blot,  which  William  instantly  recognized 


76  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

for  a  portrait  of  the  mole  on  Dame  Datchett's  chin.  This 
brilliant  caricature  so  tickled  him,  that  he  had  a  fit  of  chok- 
ing from  suppressed  laughter ;  and  he  and  Jan,  being  de- 
tected "  in  mischief,"  were  summoned  with  their  slates  to 
the  Dame's  chair. 

William  came  olf  triumphant ;  but  when  the  Dame  caught 
sight  of  Jan's  slate,  without  minutely  examining  his  work, 
she  said,  "  Zo  thee's  been  scraaling  on  thee  slate,  instead  of 
writing  thee  figures,"  and  at  once  began  to  fumble  beneath 
her  chair. 

But  William  had  slightly  moved  the  strap  with  his  foot, 
as  lie  stood  with  a  perfectly  unmoved  and  vacant  countenance 
beside  the  Dame,  which  made  some  delay ;  and  as  Mrs. 
Datchett  bent  lower  on  the  right  side  of  her  chair,  William 
began  upon  the  left  a  "  hum,"  which,  with  a  close  imitation 
of  the  crowing  of  a  cock,  the  grunting  of  a  pig,  and  the 
braying  of  a  donkey,  formed  his  chief  stock  of  accomplish- 
ments, 

"  Drat  the  thing  !  Where  be  un?  "  said  the  Dame,  en- 
dangering her  balance  in  the  search. 

"  B-z-z-z-z  !  "  went  William  behind  the  chair  ;  and  he 
added,  sotto  voce,  to  Jan.  "  She  be  as  dunch  as  a  bittle.". 

At  last  the  Dame  heard,  and  looked  round.  "Be  that  a 
harnet,  missus,  do  'ee  think  ?  "  said  William,  with  a  face  as 
guileless  as  a  babe's. 

Dame  Datchett  rose  in  terror.  William  bent  to  look  be- 
neath her  chair  for  the  hornet,  and  of  course  repeated  his 
hum.  As  the  hornet  could  neither  be  found  nor  got  rid  of, 
the  alarmed  old  lady  broke  up  the  school,  and  went  to  lay  a 
.  trap  of  brown  sugar  outside  the  window  for  her  enemy. 
And  so  Jan  escaped  a  beating. 

But  this  and  the  btory  of  his  first  fight  are  digressions.  It 
yet  remains  to  be  told  how  he  took  to  drawing  pigs. 

Dame  Datchett's  cottage  was  the  last  on  one  side  of  the 
street;  but  it  did  not  face  the  street,  but  looked  over  the 
water-meadows,  and  the  little  river,  and  the  bridge. 

As  Jan  sat  on  the  end  of  the  form,  he  could  look  through 
the  Dame's  open  door,  the  chief  view  from  which  was  of  a 
place  close  by  the  bridge,  and  on  the  river's  bank,  where  the 
pig-minders  of  the  village  brought  their  pigs  to  water.  Day 
after  day,  when  the  tedrrxr   «t  doing  nothing  under  Danae 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  ?f 

Datchett's  superintendence  was  insufficiently  relieved  to 
Jan's  active  mind  by  pinching  "  Willum"  till  lie  giggled,  or 
playing  cat's-cradle  with  one  of  his  foster-brothers,  did  he 
welcome  the  sight  of  a  flock  of  pigs  with  their  keeper,  scut- 
tling past  the  Dame's  door,  and  rushing  snorting  to  the 
stream. 

Much  he  envied  the  freedom  of  the  happy  pig-minder, 
whilst  the  vagaries  of  the  pigs  were  an  unfailing  source  of 
amusement. 

The  degree  and  variety  of  expression  in  a  pig's  eye  can 
only  be  appreciated  by  those  who  have  studied  pigs  as  Mor- 
land  must  have  studied  them.  The  pertness,  the  liveliness, 
the  humor,  the  love  of  mischief,  the  fiendish  ingenuity  and 
perversity  of  which  pigs  are  capable,  can  be  fully  known  to 
the  care-worn  pig-minder  alone.  When  they  are  running 
away, — and  when  are  they  not  running  away? — they  have 
an  action  with  the  hind  legs  very  like  a  donkey  in  a  state  of 
revolt.  But  they  have  none  of  the  donkey's  too  numerous 
grievances.  And  if  donkeys  squealed  at  every  switch,  as 
pigs  do,  their  undeserved  sufferings  would  have  cried  loud 
enough  for  vengeance  before  this. 

Jan's  opportunities  for  studying  pigs  were  good.  As  the 
smallest  and  swiftest  of  the  flock,  his  tail  tightly  curled, 
and  indescribable  jauntiness  in  his  whole  demeanor,  came 
bounding  to  the  river's  brink,  followed  by  his  fellows,  driv- 
ing, pushing,  snuffing,  winking,  and  gobbling,  and  lastly  by 
a  small  boy  in  a  large  coat,  with  a  long  switch,  Jan  was 
witness  of  the  whole  scene  from  Dame  Datchett's  door. 
And,  as  he  sat  with  his  slate  and  pencil  before  him,  he  nat- 
urally took  to  drawing  the  quaint  comic  faces  and  expressive 
eyes  of  the  herd,  and  their  hardly  less  expressive  backs 
and  tails ;  and  to  depicting  the  scenes  which  took  place 
when  the  pigs  had  enjoyed  their  refreshment,  and  with  re- 
newed vigor  led  their  keeper  in  twenty  different  directions, 
instead  of  going  home.  Back,  up  the  road,  where  he  could 
hardly  drive  him  at  the  point  of  the  switch  a  few  hours  be- 
fore ;  by  sharp  turns  into  Squire  Ammaby's  grounds,  or  the 
churchyard  ;  and  helter-skelter  through  the  water-meadows. 

The  fame  of  Jan's  "  pitcher-making "  had  gone  before 
him  to  Dame  Datchett's  school  by  the  mouths  of  his  foster- 


?8  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

brothers  and  sisters,  and  he  found  a  dozen  little  voices  ready 
to  dictate  subjects  for  his  pencil. 

"Make  a  'ouse,  Janny  Lake."  "Make  thee  vather's 
mill,  Janny  Lake."  "  Make  a  man.  Make  Dame  Datchett. 
Make  the  parson.  Make  the  Cheap  Jack.  Make  Daddy 
Angel.  Make  Master  Chuter.  Make  a  oss — cow — ship — ■ 
pig!" 

But  the  popularity  obtained  by  Jan's  pigs  soon  surpassed 
that  of  all  his  other  performances. 

".  Make  pigs  for  I,  Janny  Lake  !  "  and  "  Make  pigs  for  I, 
too  !  "  was  a  sort  of  whispering  chorus  that  went  on  perpet- 
ually under  the  Dame's  nose.  But  when  she  found  that  it 
led  to  no  disturbance,  that  the  children  only  huddled  round 
the  child  Jan  and  his  slate  like  eager  scholars  round  a 
teacher,  Dame  Datchett  was  wise  enough  to  be  thankful  that 
Jan  possessed  a  power  she  had  never  been  able  to  acquire, — 
that  he  could  "  keep  the  young  varments  quiet." 

"  He  be  most's  good's  a  monitor,"  thought  the  Dame ; 
and  she  took  a  nap,  and  Jan's  genius  held  the  school 
together. 

The  children  tried  other  influences  besides  persuasion. 

"Jan  Lake,  I've  brought  thee  an  apple.  Draa  out  a  pig 
for  I  on  a's  slate." 

Jan  had  a  spirit  of  the  most  upright  and  honorable  kind. 
He  never  took  an  unfair  advantage,  and  to  the  petty  cunning 
which  was  "  Willum's"  only  idea  of  wisdom  he  seemed  by 
nature  incapable  of  stooping.  But  in  addition  to,  and  along- 
side of,  his  artistic  temperament,  there  appeared  to  be  in  him 
no  small  share  of  the  spirit  of  a  trader.  The  capricious, 
artistic  spirit  made  him  fitful  in  his  use  even  of  the  beloved 
slate;  but,  when  he  was  least  inclined  to  draw,  the  offer  of 
something  he  very  much  wanted  would  spur  him  to  work ; 
and  in  the  spirit  of  a  true  trader,  he  worked  well. 

He  would  himself  have  made  a  charming  study  for  a  paint- 
er, as  he  sat  surrounded  by  his  patrons,  who  watched  him 
with  gaping  mouths  of  wonderment,  as  his  black  eyes  moved 
rapidly  to  and  fro  between  the  river's  brink  and  his  slate,  and 
his  tiny  fingers  steered  the  pencil  into  cunning  lines  which 
"  made  pigs."  "  The  very  moral  ! "  as  William  declared, 
6macking  his  corduroy  breeches  with  delight. 

Sometimes  Jan  hardly  knew  that  they  were  there,  he  was 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  yg 

to  absorbed  in  his  work.  His  eyes  glowed  with  that  strong 
pleasure  which  comes  in  (he  very  learning  of  any  art,  per- 
haps of  any  craft.  Now  and  then,  indeed,  liis  face  would 
cloud  \\iih  a  different  expression,  and  in  fits  of  annoyance, 
like  that  in  which  his  foster-mother  found  him  outside  the 
windmill,  he  would  break  his  pencils,  and  ruthlessly  destroy 
sketches  with  which  his  patrons  would  have  been  quite  satis- 
fied. But  at  other  moments  his  face  would  twinkle  with  a 
very  sunshine  of  smiles,  as  he  was  conscious  of  having  caught 
exactly  the  curve  which  expressed  obstinacy  in  this  pig's 
back,  or  the  air  of  reckless  defiance  in  that  other's  tail. 

And  so  he  learned  little  or  nothing,  and  improved  in  his 
drawing,  and  kept  the  school  quiet,  and  had  always  a  pocket 
well  filled  with  sweet  things,  nails,  string,  tops,  balls,  and 
sucli  treasures,  earned  by  his  art. 

One  day  as  he  sat  "  making  pigs  "  for  one  after  another  of 
the  group  of  children  round  him,  a  pig  of  especial  humor 
having  drawn  a  murmur  of  delight  from  the  circle,  this 
murmur  was  dismally  echoed  by  a  sob  from  a  little  maid  on 
the  outside  of  the  group.  It  was  Master  Chuter's  little 
daughter,  a  pretty  child,  with  an  oval,  dainty  featured  face, 
and  a  prim  gentleness  about  her,  like  a  good  little  girl  in  a 
good  little  story.  The  intervening  young  rustics  began  to 
nudge  each  other  and  look  back  at  her. 

"  Kitty  Chuter  be  crying  !  "  they  whispered. 

"  What  be  amiss  with  'ee,  then,  Kitty  Chuter?"  said  Jan, 
looking  up  from  his  work ;  and  the  question  was  passed  on 
with  some  impatience,  as  her  tears  prevented  her  reply. 
"  What  be  amiss  with  'ee  ?  " 

"  Janny  Lake  have  never  made  a  pig  for  I,"  sobbed  the 
little  maid,  with  her  head  dolefully  inclined  to  her  left 
shoulder,  and  her  oval  face  pulled  to  a  doubly  pensive 
length.  "  I  axed  my  vather  to  let  me  get  him  a  posy,  and 
a  said  I  might.  And  I  got  un  some  vine  Bloody  Warrior, 
and  a  heap  of  Boy's  Love  off  our  big  bush,  that  smelled 
beautiful.  And  vather  says  a  can  have  some  water-blobs  off 
our  pond  when  they  blows.  But  Tommy  Green  met  I  as  a 
was  coming  down  to  school,  and  a  snatched  my  vlowersfrom 
me,  and  I  begged  un  to  let  me  keep  some  of  un,  and  a  only 
laughed  at  me.  And  I  daren't  go  back,  for  I  was  late  ;  and 
now  I've  nothin'  to  give  Janny  Lake  to  make  a  draft  of  a 


Sd  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

pig  for  I."  And,  having  held  up  for  the  telling  of  her  tale, 
the  little  maid  broke  down  in  fresh  tears. 

Jan  finished  off  the  tail  of  the  pig  he  was  drawing  with  a 
squeak  of  the  pencil  that  might  have  come  from  the  pig 
itself,  and,  stuffing  the  slate  into  its  owner's  hands,  he  ran  up 
to  Kitty  Chuter  and  kissed  her  wet  cheeks,  saying,  "Give  I 
thee  slate,  Kitty  Chuter,  and  I'll  make  thee  the  best  pig  of 
all.  I  don't  want  nothing  from  thee  for  't.  And  when 
school's  done,  I'll  whop  Tommy  Green,  if  I  sees  him." 

And  forthwith,  without  looking  from  the  door  for  studies, 
Jan  drew  a  fat  sow  with  her  little  ones  about  her  ;  the  other 
children  clustering  round  to  peep,  and  crying,  "  He've  made 
Kitty  Chuter  one,  two,  three,  vour,  vive  pigs  !  " 

"  Ah,  and  there  be  two  more  you  can't  see,  because  the 
old  un  be  lying  on  'em,"  said  Jan. 

"  Six,  seven ! "  William  counted ;  and  he  assisted  the 
calculation  by  sticking  up  first  a  thumb  and  then  a  fore-fin- 
ger as  he  spoke. 

Some  who  had  not  thought  half  a  ball  of  string,  or  a  dozen 
nails  as  good  as  new,  too  much  to  pay  for  a  single  pig  drawn 
on  one  side  of  their  slates,  and  only  lasting  as  long  as  they 
could  contrive  to  keep  the  other  side  in  use  without  quite 
smudging  that  one,  were  now  disposed  to  be  dissatisfied  with 
their  bargains.  But  as  the  school  broke  up,  and  Tom  Green 
was  seen  loitering  on  the  other  side  of  the  road,  every  thing 
was  forgotten  in  the  general  desire  to  see  Jan  carry  out  his 
threat,  and  "  whop"  a  boy  bigger  than  himself  for  bullying 
a  little  girl. 

Jan  showed  no  disposition  to  shirk,  and  William  acted  as 
his  friend,  and  held  his  slate  and  hook. 

Success  is  not  always  to  tlie  just,  however;  and  poor  Jan 
was  terribly  beaten  by  his  big  opponent,  though  not  without 
giving  him  some  marks  of  the  combat  to  carry  away. 

Kitty  Chuter  wept  bitterly  for  Jan's  bloody  nose  ;  but  he 
comforted  her,  saying,  "Never  mind,  Kitty;  if  he  plagues 
thee  again,  '11  fight  un  again  and  again,  till  I  whops  he." 

But  his  valor  was  not  put  to  the  proof,  for  Tommy  Green 
molested  her  no  more. 

Jan  washed  his  face  in  the  water-meadows,  and  went  stout- 
Jioartedly  home,  where  Master  Lake  beat  him  afresh,  as  he 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  81 

ironically  said,  "  to  teach  liim  to  vight  young  varments  like 
himself  instead  of  minding  his  book." 

But  upon  Master  Chuter,  of  the  Heart  of  Oak,  the  in- 
cident made  quite  a  different  impression.  He  was  natur- 
ally pleased  by  Jan's  championship  of  his  child,  and, 
added  to  this,  he  was  much  impressed  by  the  sketch  on  the 
slate.  It  was,  he  said,  the  "  living  likeness  "  of  his  own 
sow ;  and,  as  he  had  seven  young  pigs,  the  portrait  was 
exact,  allowing  for  the  two  which  Jan  had  said  were  out 
of  sight. 

He  gave  Kitty  a  new  slate,  and  kept  the  sketch,  which 
he  showed  to  all  in-comers.  He  displayed  it  one  evening 
to  the  company  assembled  round  the  hearth  of  the  little 
inn,  and  took  occasion  to  propound  his  views  on  the  subject 
of  Jan's  future  life. 

(Master  Chuter  was  fond  of  propounding  his  views, — 
a  taste  which  was  developed  by  always  being  sure  of  an 
audience.) 

"  It's  nothing  to  me,"  said  Master  Chuter,  speaking  of 
Jan,  "  who  the  boy  be.  It  be  no  fault  of  his'n  if  he's  a 
fondling.  And  one  thing's  sure  enough.  Them  that  left 
him  with  Master  Lake  left  something  besides  him.  There 
was  that  advertisement, — you  remember  that  about  the  five- 
pound  bill  in  the  paper,  Daddy  Angel?" 

"Ay,  ay,  Master  Chuter,"  said  Daddy  Angel;  "after  the 
big  storm,  five  year  ago.      Sartinly,  Master  Chuter." 

"  Was  it  ever  found,  do  ye  think?  "  said  Master  Linseed, 
the  painter  and  decorator. 

"It  must  have  been  found,"  said  the  landlord  ;  "  but  I 
bean't  so  sure  about  it's  having  been  given  up,  the  notice 
was  in  so  long.  And  whoever  did  find  un  must  have  found 
un  at  once.  But  what  I  says  is,  five-pound  notes  lost  as 
easy  as  that  comes  from  where  there's  more  of  the  same 
sort.  And,  if  Master  Lake  be  paid  for  the  boy,  he  can 
'fford  to  'prentice  him  when  his  time  comes.  He've  boys 
enough  of  his  own  to  take  to  the  mill,  and  Jan  do  seem  to 
have  such  an  uncommon  turn  for  drawing  things  out,  I'd  try 
him  with  painting  and  varnishing,  if  he  was  mine.  And  I 
believe  he'd  come  to  signs,  too  !  Look  at  that,  now  !  It 
be  small,  and  the  boy've  had  no  paint  to  lay  on,  but  there's 
the  sign  of  the  Jolly  Sow  for  you?  as,  natteral  as  life, 
0 


82  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

You  know  about  signs,  Master  Linseed,"  continued  the 
landlord.  For  there  was  a  tradition  that  the  painter  could 
"  do  picture-signs,"  though  he  had  only  been  known  to 
renew  lettered  ones  since  he  came  to  the  neighborhood. 
"  Master  .Lake  should  'prentice  him  with  you  when  he's 
older,"  Master  Chuter  said,  in  conclusion. 

But  Master  Linseed  did  not  respond  warmly.  He  felt  it 
a  little  beneath  his  dignity  as  a  sign-painter  to  jump  at  the 
idea,  though  the  rest  of  the  company  assented  in  a  general 
murmur. 

"  Scrawling  on  a  slate,"  the  painter  and  decorator  began 

and  at  this  point  he  paused,  after  the  leisurely  customs  of 

the  district,  to  light  his  pipe  at  the  leaden-weighted  candle- 
stick which  stood  near :  and  then,  as  his  hearers  sat  ex- 
pectant, but  not  impatient,  proceeded :  "  Scrawling  on  a 
slate  is  one  thing,  Master  Chuter  ;  painting  and  decorating's 
another.  Painting's  a  trade  ;  and  not  rightly  to  be  under- 
stood by  them  that's  not  larned  it,  nor  to  be  picked  up  by 
all  as  can  scrawl  a  line  here  and  a  line  there,  as  the  whim 
takes  'em.  Take  oak -graining," — and  here  Master  Lin- 
seed paused  again,  with  a  fine  sense  of  effect, — "  who'd  ever 
think  of  taking  a  comb  to  it  as  didn't  know  ?  And  for  the 
knots,  I've  worked    'em — now    with  a    finger   and   now   a 

thumb over  a  shutter-front  till  it  looked  that  beautiful  the 

man  it  was  done  for  telled  me  himself, — <  I'd  rather,'  says 
he,  '  have  'em  as  you've  done  'em  than  the  real  thing.'  But 
young  hands  is  nowhere  with  the  knots.  They  put  'em  in 
too  thick." 

The  company  said,  "  Ay,  ay  !  "  in  a  tone  of  unbroken  as- 
sent, for  Master  Linseed  was  understood  to  have  "  come 
from  a  distance,"  and  to  "  know  a  good  deal."  But  an  inn- 
keeper stands  above  a  painter  and  decorator  anywhere,  and 
especially  on  his  own  hearth,  and  Master  Chuter  did  not 
mean  to  be  put  down. 

"  I  suppose  old  hands  were  young  uns  once,  Master  Lin- 
seed," said  he;  "and  if  the  boy  were  never  much  at  oak- 
graining  I'd  back  him  for  sign-painting,  if  he  were  taught. 
Why,  the  pigs  he  draas  out,  look  you.  I  could  cut  'cm  up, 
and  not  a  piece  missing ;  not  a  joint,  nor  as  much  as  would 
make  a  pound  of  sausages.  And  if  a  draas  pigs,  why  not 
psses,  why  not  any  other  kind  ?  " 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  83 

"Ay,  ay!"  said  the  company. 

"I  be  thinking,"  continued  Master  Chuter,  "of  a  gentle- 
man as  draad  out  that  mare  of  my  father's  that  ran  in  the 
iiiail.     You  remember  the  coaches,  Daddy  Angel  ?  " 

uAy,  ay,  Master  Chuter.  Between  Lonnon  and  Exeter  a 
ran.    Fine  days  at  the  Heart  of  Oak,  then,  Master  Chuter." 

"  He  weren't  a  sign-painter,  that  I  knows  on.  A  were 
somethin'  more  in  the  gentry  way,"  said  Master  Chuter, 
not,  perhaps,  quite  without  malice  in  the  distinction.  "  He 
were  what  they  calls  in  genteel  talk  a  " — 

"  Artis',"  said  Master  Linseed,  removing  his  pipe,  to  sup- 
ply the  missing  word  with  a  sense  of  superiority. 

"  No,  not  a  artis',"  said  Master  Chuter,  "  though  it  do  be- 
gin with  a  A,. too.     'Twasn't  a  artis'  he  was,  'twas  a" — 

"  Ammytoor,"  said  the  travelled  sign-painter. 

"  That  be  it,"  said  the  innkeeper.  "  A  ammytoor.  And 
he  was  short  of  money,  I  fancy,  and  so  'twas  settled  a  should 
paint  this  mare  of  my  father's  to  set  against  the  bill.  And 
a  draad  and  squinted  at  un,  and  a  squinted  at'un  and  a 
draad,  and  laid  the  paint  on  till  ibf  pictur'  looked  all  in  a 
mess,  and  then  he  took  un  away  io  vinish.  But  when  a 
sent  it  home,  I  thought  my  vather  would  have  had  the  law 
of  un.  I'm  blessed  if  a  hadn't  given  the  mare  four  white 
feet,  and  shoulders  that  wouldn't  have  pulled  a  vegetable 
cart ;  and  she  near-wheeler  of  the  mail !  I'd  lay  a  pound 
bill  Jan  Lake  would  a  done  her  ever  so  much  better,  for  as 
young  a  hand  as  a  is,  if  a'd  squinted  at  her  as  long." 

"  Well,  well,  Master  Chuter,"  said  the  painter  and  deco- 
rator, rising  to  go,  "  let  the  boy  draw  pigs  and  osses  for  his 
living.  And  I  wish  he  may  find  paint  as  easy  as  slate 
pencil.'"' 

Master  Linseed's  parting  words  produced  upon  the  com- 
pany that  somewhat  unreasonable  depression  which  such 
ironical  good  wishes  are  apt  to  cause  ;  but  they  only  roused 
the  spirit  of  contradiction  in  Master  Chuter,  and  heightened 
his  belief  in  Jan's  talents  more  than  any  praise  from  the 
painter  could  have  done. 

"  Here's  a  pretty  caddie  about  giving  a  boy's  due  !  "  said 
the  innkeeper.  "  But  I  knows  the  points  of  a  oss,  and  the 
makings  of  a  pig,  if  I  bean't  a  sign-painter.  And,  mark 
my  words,  the  boy  Jan  'ull  out-paint  Master  Linseed  yet,'* 


84  7AN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

Master  Chuter  spoke  with  triumph  in  his  tone,  but  it 
was  the  triumph  of  delivering  his  sentiments  to  unopposing 
hearers. 

There'were  moments  of  greater  triumph  to  come,  of 
which  he  yet  wotted  not,  when  the  sevenfold  fulfillment 
of  his  prediction  should  be  past  dispute,  and  attested  from 
his  own  walls  by  more  lasting  monuments  of  Jan's  skill 
than  the  too  perishable  sketch  which  now  stood  like  a  text 
for  the  innkeeper  on  the  mantelpiece  of  the  Heart  of  Oak. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE  MOP. THE  SHOP.— WHAT  THE  CHEAP~JACK'S  WIFE 

HAD  TO  TELL. WHAT  GEORGE  WITHHELD. 

A  mop  is  a  local  name  for  a  hiring-fair,  at  which  young 
men  and  women  present  themselves  to  be  hired  as  domestic 
servants  or  farm  laborers  for  a  year.  It  was  at  a  mop  that 
the  windmiller  had  hired  George,  and  it  was  at  that  annual 
festival  that  his  long  service  came  to  an  end.  He  betook 
himself  to  the  town,  where  the  fair  was  going  on,  not  with 
any  definite  intention  of  seeking  another  master,  but  from  a 
variety  of  reasons :  partly  for  a  holiday,  and  tc  '•  see  thu 
fun  ;"  partly  to  visit  the  Cheap  Jack,  and  hear  what  advice 
he  had  to  give,  and  to  learn  what  was  in  the  letter  ;  partly 
with  the  idea  that  something  might  suggest  hseli  in  the  busj 
town  as  a  suitable  investment  for  his  savings  and  his  talents 
At  the  worst,  he  could  but  take  anctner  place. 

The  sun  shone  brightly  o\y  xne  market-place  as  Georg* 
passed  through  it.  The  s^rri**  was  quaint  and  picturesque. 
Booths,  travelling  snovv?,  penny  theatres,  quack  doctorsv 
tumblers,  profile  cutters,  exhibitors  and  salesmen  of  all  sorts, 
thronged  the  square,  and  overflowed  into  a  space  behind, 
where  sow>e  houses  had  been  burnt  down  and  never  rebuilt ; 
whilst  round  tne  remains  of  the  market  cross  in  the  centre 
wet^  grouped  the  lads  and  lasses  "on  hire."  The  girls  were 
wT3iartiy  dressed,  and  the  young  men  in  snowy  smocks, 
-above  which  peeped  waistcoats  of  gay  colors,  looked  in  the 
earlier  part  of  the  day  so  spruce?  that  it  was  as  lamentable. 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  85 

to  see  them  after  the  hours  of  beer-drinking  and  shr.g 
tobacco-smoking  which  followed,  as  it  was  to  see  what  might 
have  been  a  neighborly  and  cheerful  festival  finally 
swamped  in  drunkenness  and  debauchery. 

George's  smock  was  white,  and  George's  waistcoat  was 
red,  and  he  had  made  himself  smart  enough,  but  he  did  not 
linger  amongst  his  fellow-servants  at  the  Cross.  He  hurried 
through  the  crowd,  nodding  sheepishly  in  answer  to  a  shower 
of  chaff  and  greetings,  and  made  his  way  to  the  by-street 
where  the  Cheap  Jack  had  a  small  dingy  shop  for  the  sale 
of  coarse  pottery.  Some  people  were  spiteful  enough  to  hint 
that  the  shop-trade  was  of  much  less  value  to  him  than  the 
store-room  attached,  where  the  goods  were  believed  to  be  not 
all  of  one  kind. 

The  red  bread-pans,  pipkins,  flower-pots,  and  so  forth, 
were  grouped  about  the  door  with  some  attempt  at  effective 
display,  and  with  cheap  prices  marked  in  chalk  upon  their 
sides.  The  window  was  clean,  and  in  it  many  knick-knacks 
of  other  kinds  were  mixed  with  the  smaller  china  ware. 
And,  when  George  entered  the  shop,  the  hunchback's  wife 
was  behind  the  counter.  Like  Mrs.  Lake,  he  paused  to 
think  where  he  could  have  seen  her  before ;  the  not  uncomely 
face  marred  by  an  ugly  mouth,  in  which  the  upper  lip  was 
long  and  cleft,  and  the  lower  lip  large  and  heavy,  seemed 
familiar  to  him.  He  was  still  beating  his  brains  when  the 
Cheap  Jack  came  in. 

George  had  been  puzzled  that  the  woman's  countenance 
did  not  seem  new  to  him,  and  he  was  puzzled  and  disturbed 
also  that  the  expression  on  the  face  of  the  Cheap  Jack  was 
quite  new.  Whatever  the  hunchback  had  in  his  head,  how- 
ever, he  was  not  unfriendly  in  his  manner. 

"  Good  morning,  George,  my  dear  !  "  he  cried,  cheerfully ; 
"you've  seen  my  missus  before,  eh,  George?" 

George  was  just  about  to  say  no,  when  he  remembered 
that  he  had  seen  the  woman,  and  when  and  where. 

"Dreadful  night  that  was,  Mr.  Sannel!"  said  the  Cheap 
Jack's  wife,  with  a  smile  on  her  large  mouth.  George 
assented,  and  by  the  hospitable  invitation  of  the  newly  mar- 
ried couple  he  followed  them  into  the  dwelling  part  of  the 
house,  trying  as  he  did  so  to  decide  upon  a  plan  for  his  future 
conduct. 


/ 

JAN  OP  THE  WINDMILL  ] 

Here  at  last  was  a  woman  who  could  probably  tell  all  that 
he  wanted  to  know  about  the  mystery  on  which  he  had 
hoped  to  trade,  and — the  Cheap  Jack  had  married  her.  If 
anything  could  be  got  out  of  the  knowledge  of  Jan's  his- 
tory, the  Cheap  Jack,  and  not  George,  would  get  it  now. 
The  hasty  resolution  to  which  George  came  was  to  try  to 
share  what  he  could  not  keep  entirely  to  himself.  He  flat- 
tered himself  he  could  be  very  civil,  and — he  had  got  the 
letter. 

It  proved  useful.  George  was  resolved  not  to  show  it 
until  he  had  got  at  something  of  what  the  large-mouthed 
woman  had  to  tell ;  and,  as  she  wanted  to  see  the  letter,  she 
made  a  virtue  of  necessity,  and  seemed  anxious  to  help  the 
miller's  man  to  the  utmost  of  her  power. 

The  history  of  her  connection  with  Jan's  babyhood  was 
soon  told,  and  she  told  it  truthfully. 

Five  years  before  her  marriage  to  the  Cheap  Jack,  she 
was  a  chambermaid  in  a  small  hotel  in  London,  and  "  under 
notice  to  leave."  Why — she  did  not  deem  it  necessary  to 
tell  George.  In  this  hotel  Jan  was  born,  and  Jan's  mother 
died.  She  was  a  foreigner,  it  was  supposed,  and  her  hus- 
band also,  for  they  talked  a  foreign  language  to  each  other. 
He  was  not  with  her  when  she  first  came,  but  he  joined  her 
afterwards,  and  was  with  her  at  her  death.  So  far  the  Cheap 
Jack's  wife  spoke  upon  hearsay.  Though  employed  at  the 
hotel,  which  was  very  full,  she  was  not  sleeping  in  the  house  ; 
she  was  not  on  good  terms  with  the  landlady,  nor  even  with 
the  other  servants,  and  her  first  real  connection  with  the 
matter  was  when  the  gentlemen,  overhearing  some  "  words  " 
between  her  and  the  landlady  at  the  bar,  abruptly  asked 
her  if  she  were  in  want  of  employment.  Pie  employed  her, 
— to  take  the  child  to  the  very  town  where  she  was  now  living 
as  the  Cheap  Jack's  wife.  He  did  not  come  with  her,  as  he 
had  to  attend  his  wife's  funeral.  It  was  understood  at  the 
hotel  that  he  was  going  to  take  the  body  abroad  for  inter- 
ment. So  the  porter  had  said.  The  person  to  whom  she  was 
directed  to  bring  the  child  was  a  respectable  old  woman,  liv- 
ing in  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  whose  business  was  sick- 
nursing.  She  seemed,  however,  to  be  comfortably  off,  and 
Had  not  been  out  for  some  time.  She  had  been  nurse  to  the 
gentleman  in  his  childhood,  so  she  once  told  the  Cheap  Jack's 


Jan  of  the  windmill  87 

wife  with  tears.  But  she  was  always  shedding  tears,  either 
over  the  baby,  or  as  she  sat  over  her  big  Bible,  "  for  ever 
having  to  wipe  her  spectacles,  and  tears  running  over  her 
nose  ridic'lus  to  behold."  She  was  pious,  and  read  the 
Bible  aloud  in  the  evening.  Then  she  had  fainting  fits;  she 
could  no  go  uphill  or  upstairs  without  great  difficulty,  and 
she  had  one  of  her  fits  when  she  first  saw  the  child.  If  with 
these  infirmities  of  body  and  mind  the  ex-nurse  had  been 
easily  managed,  the  Cheap  Jack's  wife  professed  that  she 
could  have  borne  it  with  patience.  But  the  old  woman 
was  painfully  shrewd,  and  there  was  no  hoodwinking  her. 
She  never  allowed  the  Cheap  Jack's  wife  to  go  out  without 
her,  and  contrived,  in  spite  of  a  hundred  plans  and  excuses, 
to  prevent  her  from  speaking  to  any  of  the  townspeople 
alone.  Never,  said  Sal,  never  could  she  have  put  up  with  it, 
even  for  the  short  time  before  the  gentleman  came  down  to 
them,  but  for  knowing  it  would  be  a  paying  job.  But  his 
arrival  was  the  signal  for  another  catastrophe,  which  ended 
in  Jan's  becoming  a  child  of  the  mill. 

If  the  sight  of  the  baby  had  nearly  overpowered  the  old 
nurse,  the  sight  of  the  dark-eyed  gentleman  overwhelmed  her 
yet  more.  Then  they  were  closeted  together  for  a  long  time, 
and  the  old  woman's  tongue  hardly  ever  stopped.  Sal  ex- 
plained that  she  would  not  nave  been  such  a  fool  as  to  let  this 
conversation  escape  her,  if  she  could  have  helped  it.  She 
took  her  place  at  the  keyhole,  and  had  an  excuse  ready  for 
the  old  woman,  if  she  should  come  out  suddenly.  The  old 
woman  came  out  suddenly,  but  she  did  not  wait  for  the  excuse. 
She  sent  the  Cheap  Jack's  wife  civilly  on  an  errand  into  the 
kitchen,  and  then  followed  her,  and  shut  the  door  and  turned 
the  key  upon  her  without  hesitation,  leaving  her  unable  to 
hear  any  thing  but  the  tones  of  the  conversation  through  the 
parlor-wall.  She  never  opened  the  door  again.  As  far  as 
the  Cheap  Jack's  wife  could  tell,  the  old  woman  seemed  to  be 
remonstrating  and  pleading ;  the  gentleman  spoke  now  and 
then.  Then  there  was  a  lull,  then  a  thud,  then  a  short  pause, 
and  then  the  parlor-door  was  burst  open,  and  the  gentleman 
came  flying  towards  the  kitchen,  and  calling  for  the  Cheap 
Jack's  wife.  The  fact  that  the  door  was  locked  caused  some 
delay,  and  delay  was  not  desirable.  The  old  nurse  had  had 
"a  fit."     When  the  doctor  came,  he  gave  no  hope  of  her 


88  janof  the  Windmill. 

life.  She  had  had  heart  disease  for  many  years,  he  said.  In 
the  midst  of  this  confusion,  a  letter  came  for  the  gentleman, 
which  seemed  absolutely  to  distract  him.  He  bade  Sal  get 
the  little  Jan  ready,  and  put  his  clothes  together,  and  they 
started  that  evening  for  the  mill.  Sal  believed  it  was  the 
doctor  who  recommended  Mrs.  Lake  as  a  foster-mother  for 
the  baby,  having  attended  her  child.  The  storm  came  on 
after  they  started.  The  child  had  been  very  sickly  ever  since 
they  left  London.  The  gentleman  took  the  Cheap  Jack's 
wife  straight  back  to  the  station,  paid  her  handsomely,  and 
sent  her  up  to  town  again.  She  had  never  seen  him  since. 
As  to  his  name,  it  so  happened  she  had  never  heard  it  at  the 
hotel ;  but  when  he  was  setting  her  off  to  the  country  with 
the  child,  she  asked  it,  and  he  told  her  that  it  was  Ford. 
The  old  nurse  also  spoke  of  him  as  Mr.  Ford,  but — so  Sal 
fancied — with  a  sort  of  effort,  which  made  her  suspect  that  it 
was  not  his  real  name. 

"  Yes,  it  be  !  "  said  George,  who  had  followed  the  narrative 
with  open-mouthed  interest.  "  It  be  aal  right.  I  knows. 
'Twas  a  gentleman  by  the  name  of  Ford  as  cried  his  pocket- 
book,  and  the  vive-pound  bill  in  the  papers.  'Tis  aal  right. 
Ford — Jan  Ford  be  the  little  varment's  name  then,  and  he 
be  gentry-born,  too  !  Missus  Lake  she  alius  said  so,  she  did, 
sartinly." 

George  was  so  absorbed  by  the  flood  of  information  which 
had  burst  upon  him  all  at  once,  and  by  adjusting  his  clumsy 
thoughts  to  the  new  view  of  Jan,  that  he  did  not  stop  to 
think  whether  the  Cheap  Jack  and  his  wife  had  known  of 
the  lost  pocket-book  and  the  reward.  They  had  not.  The 
dark  gentleman  had  no  wish  to  reopen  communication  with 
the  woman  he  had  employed.  He  thought  (and  rightly)  that 
the  book  had  fallen  when  he  stumbled  over  his  cloak  in  get- 
ting into  the  carriage,  and  he  had  refused  to  advertise  it 
except  in  the  local  papers.  And  at  that  time  the  Cheap  Jack 
and  Sal  were  both  in  London. 

But  George's  incautious  speech  recalled  one  or  two  facts 
to  them,  and  whilst  George  sat  slowly  endeavoring  to  realize 
that  new  idea,  "  Master  Jan  Ford,  full  young  gentleman,  and 
at  least  half  Frenchman  "  (for  of  any- other  foreigners  George 
knew  nothing),  the  Cheap  Jack  was  pondering  the  words 
M  five-pound  bill,"  and  connecting  them  with  George's  account 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  89 

of  his  savings  when  they  last  met ;  and  his  quicker  spouse  was 
also  putting  two  and  two  together,  but  with  a  larger  sum. 
At  the  same  instant  the  Cheap  Jack  inquired  after  George's 
money,  and  his  wife  asked  about  the  letter.  But  George  had 
hastily  come  to  a  decision.  If  the  tale  told  by  the  woman 
were  true,  he  had  got  a  great  deal  of  information  for  nothing, 
and  he  saw  no  reason  for  sharing  whatever  the  letter  might 
contain  with  those  most  likely  to  profit  by  it.  As  to  letting 
the  Cheap  Jack  have  any  thing  whatever  to  do  with  the  dis- 
posal of  his  savings,  nothing  could  be  further  from  his  inten- 
tions. 

"  Gearge  bean't  such  a  vool  as  a  looks,"  thought  that 
worthy,  and  aloud  he  vowed,  with  unnecessary  oaths,  that 
the  money  was  still  in  the  bank,  and  that  he  had  forgotten 
to  bring  the  letter,  which  was  in  a  bundle  that  he  had  left 
at  the  mill. 

This  disappointment  did  not,  however,  diminish  the  civil- 
ity of  the  Cheap  Jack's  wife.  She  was  very  hospitable,  and 
even  pressed  George  to  spend  the  night  at  their  house,  which 
he  declined.  He  had  a  dread  of  the  Cheap  Jack,  which  was 
almost  superstitious. 

For  her  civility,  indeed,  the  Cheap  Jack's  wife  was  taken 
to  task  by  her  husband  in  a  few  moments  when  they  were 
alone  together. 

"  I  thought  you  was  sharper  than  to  be  took  in  by  him  !  " 
said  the  hunchback,  indignantly.  "Do  you  believe  all  that 
gag  about  the  bank  and  the  bundle  ?  and  you,  as  soft  to  him, 
telling  him  every  blessed  thing,  and  he  stowed  the  cash  and 
the  letter  somewheres  where  we  shall  never  catch  a  sight  of 
'em,  and  got  every  tiling  out  of  you  as  easy  as  shelling  apod 
of  peas."  And  in  language  as  strong  as  that  of  the  miller's 
man  the  Cheap  Jack  swore  he  could  have  done  better  him- 
self a  hundred  times  over. 

"  Could  you  ?  "  said  the  large-mouthed  woman,  contempt- 
uously. "  I  wouldn't  live  long  in  the  country,  I  wouldn't, 
if  it  was  to  make  me  such  a  owl  as  you've  turned  into.  It 
ain't  much  farther  than  your  nose  you  sees  !  " 

"  Never  mind  me,  Sal,  my  dear,"  said  the  hunchback, 
anxiously.  "  I  trusts  you,  my  dear.  And  it  seems  to  me  as 
if  you  thought  he'd  got  'em  about  him.  Do  you,  my  dear, 
and  why  ?     And  why  did  you  tell  him  the  truth,  straight  on. 


90  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

end,  when  a  made-up  tale  would  have  done  as  well,  and  kept 
him  in  the  dark  ?  " 

"  Why  did  I  tell  him  the  truth  ?  "  repeated  the  woman. 
"  'Cos  I  ain't  such  a  countrified  fool  as  to  think  lies  is  alius 
the  cleverest  tip,  'cos  the  truth  went  farthest  this  time. 
Why  do  I  think  he's  got  'em  about  him  ?  First,  'cos  he 
swore  so  steady  he  hadn't.  For  a  ready  lie,  and  for  acting  a 
lie,  and  over-acting  it  at.  times,  give  me  townspeople i;  but  for 
a  thundering  big  un,  against  all  reason,  and  for  sticking  to  it 
stupid  when  they're  downright  convicted,  and  with  a  face  as 
innercent  as  a  baby's,  give  me  a  country  lump  !  And  next, 
because  I  can  tell  with  folks  a  deal  sharper  than  him,  even 
to  which  side  of  'em  the  pocket  is  they've  got  what  they 
wants  to  hide  in,  by  the  way  they  moves  then-  head  and  their 
hands." 

"  Which  side  is  it  of  him,  Sal  ?  "  said  the  hunchback,  with 
ugly  eagerness. 

"  The  left,"  said  Sal ;  "  but  it  won't  be  there  long." 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE    MILLER'S  MAN  AT  THE  MOP A  LIVELY  COMPANION 

SAL    LOSES    HER  PURSE THE  RECRUITING  SERGEANT 

THE    POCKET-BOOK     TWICE     STOLEN GEORGE     IN      THE 

KING'S    ARMS GEORGE     IN    THE  KING'S     SERVICE. THE 

LETTER  CHANGES  HANDS,  BUT  KEEPS  ITS  SECRET. 

For  some  years  the  ex-servant  of  the  windmill  had  been 
rather  favored  by  fortune  than  otherwise.  He  found  the 
pocket-book,  and,  though  he  could  not  read  the  letter,  he  got 
the  five-pound  note.  Since  then,  his  gains,  honest  and  dis- 
honest, had  been  much  beyond  his  needs,  and  his  savings 
were  not  small.  Suspicion  was  just  beginning  to  connect 
his  name  and  that  of  the  Cheap  Jack  with  certain  thefts  com- 
mitted in  the  neighborhood,  when  he  made  up  his  mind 
to  go. 

His  wealth  was  not  generally  known.  Many  a  time  had 
he  been  tempted  to  buy  pigs  (a  common  speculation  in  the 
district,  and  the  first  stone  of  more  than  one  rustic  fortune), 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  91 

but  the  dread  of  exciting  suspicion  balanced  the  almost  cer- 
tain profit,  and  he  could  never  make  up  his  mind.  For 
Master  Lake  paid  only  five  pounds  a  year  for  his  man's 
valuable  services,  which,  even  in  a  district  where  at  that 
time  habits  were  simple,  and  boots  not  made  of  brown  paper, 
did  not  leave  much  margin  for  the  purchase  of  pigs.  The 
pig  speculation,  though  profitable,  was  not  safe.  George  had 
made  money,  however,  and  he  had  escaped  detection.  On 
the  whole,  he  had  been  fortunate.  But  that  mop  saw  a  turn 
in  the  tide  of  his  affairs,  and  ended  strangely  with  him. 

It  began  otherwise.  George  had  never  felt  more  con- 
vinced of  his  power  to  help  himself  at  the  expense  of  his 
neighbors  than  he  did  after  getting  Sal's  information,  and 
keeping  back  his  own,  before  they  started  to  join  in  the 
amusements  of  the  fair.  He  was  on  good  terms  with  him- 
self; none  the  less  so  that  he  had  not  failed  to  see  the  Cheap 
Jack's  chagrin,  as  the  woman  poured  forth  all  she  knew  for 
George's  benefit,  and  got  nothing  in  return. 

The  vanity  of  the  ignorant  knows  no  check  except  from 
without ;  under  flattery,  it  is  boundless,  and  the  Cheap 
Jack's  wife  found  no  difficulty  in  fooling  George  to  the  top  of 
his  bent. 

George  was  rather  proud,  too,  of  his  companion.  She  was 
not,  as  has  been  said,  ill-looking  but  for  her  mouth,  and 
beauty  was  not  abundant  enough  in  the  neighborhood  to 
place  her  at  much  disadvantage.  Fashionable  finery  was 
even  less  common,  and  the  Cheap  Jack's  wife  was  showily 
dressed.  And  George  found  her  a  very  pleasant  companion  ; 
much  livelier  than  the  slow-witted  damsels  of  the  country- 
side. For  him  she  had  nothing  but  flattery ;  but  her  smart 
speeches  at  the  expense  of  other  people  in  the  crowd  caused 
the  miller's  man  to  double  up  his  long  back  with  laughter. 

A  large  proportion  of  the  country  wives  and  sweethearts 
tramped  up  and  down  the  fair  at  the  heels  of  their  husbands 
and  swains,  like  squaws  after  their  Indian  spouses.  But  the 
Cheap  Jack's  wife  asked  George  for  his  arm, — the  left  one, 
— and  she  clung  to  it  all  the  day.  "  Quite  the  lady  in  her 
manners  she  be,"  thought  George.  She  called  him  "Mr, 
Sannel,"  too.  George  felt  that  she  admired  him.  For  a 
moment  his  satisfaction  was  checked,  when  she  called  his  at- 
tention to  the  good  looks  of  a  handsome  recruiting  sergeant, 


92  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

who  was  strutting  about  the  mop  with  an  air  expressing  not 
so  much  that  it  all  belonged  to  him  as  that  he  didn't  at  all 
belong  to  it. 

"  But  there,  he  ain't  to  hold  a  candle  to  you,  Mr.  Sannels 
though  his  coat  do  sit  well  upon  him,"  said  the  Cheap  Jack's 
wife. 

It  gratified  George's  standing  ill-will  to  the  Cheap  Jack 
to  have  "  cut  him  out"  with  this  showy  lady,  and  to  laugh 
loudly  with  her  upon  his  arm,  whilst  the  hunchback  fol- 
lowed, like  a  discontented  cur,  at  their  heels.  If  there  was  a 
drawback  to  the  merits  of  his  lively  companion,  it  was  her 
power  of  charming  the  money  out  of  George's  pocket. 

The  money  that  he  disbursed  came  from  the  right-hand 
pocket  of  his  red  waistcoat.  In  the  left-hand  pocket  (and 
the  pockets,  like  the  pattern  of  the  waistcoat,  were  large) 
was  the  lost  pocket-book.  It  wras  a  small  one,  and  just 
fitted  in  nicely.  In  the  pocket-book  were  George's  savings, 
chiefly  in  paper.  Notes  were  more  portable  than  coin,  and, 
as  George  meant  to  invest  them  somewhere  where  he  was 
not  known,  no  suspicions  need  be  raised  by  their  value.  The 
letter  was  there  also. 

There  were  plenty  of  shows  at  the  mop,  and  the  Cheap 
Jack's  wife  saw  them  all.  The  travelling  wax-works ;  the 
menagerie  with  a  very  mangy  lion  in  an  appallingly  rickety 
cage ;  the  fat  Scotchman,  a  monster  made  more  horrible  to 
view  by  a  dress  of  royal  Stuart  tartan  ;  the  penny  theatre, 
and  a  mermaid  in  a  pickling-tub. 

One  treat  only  she  declined.  The  miller's  man  would 
have  paid  for  a  shilling  portrait  of  her,  but  she  refused  to  be 
taken. 

The  afternoon  was  wearing  away,  when  Sal  caught  sight 
of  some  country  bumpkins  upon  a  stage,  who  were  preparing 
to  grin  through  horse-collars  against  each  other  for  the 
prize  of  a  hat.  As  she  had  never  seen  or  heard  of  the  en- 
tertainment, George  explained  it  to  her. 

It  was  a  contest  in  which  the  ugliest  won  the  prize.  Only 
the  widest-mouthed,  most  grotesque-looking  clowns  of  the 
place  attempted  to  compete ;  and  he  won  who,  besides  being 
the  ugliest  by  nature,  could  "  grin  "  and  contort  his  features 
in  the  mode  which  most  tickled  the  fancy  of  the  beholders. 
George   had  once  competed  himself,  and  had  only  failed  *o 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  93 

secure  the  hat  because  his  nearest  rival  could  squint  as  well 
as  grin ;  and  he  was  on  the  point  of  boasting  of  this,  but  on 
second  thoughts  he  kept  the  fact  to  himself. 

Very  willing  indeed  he  was  to  escort  his  companion  to  a 
show  in  the  open  air  for  which  nothing  was  charged,  and 
they  plunged  valiantly  into  the  crowd.  The  crowd  was 
huge,  but  George's  height  and  strength  stood  him  in  good 
stead,  and  he  pushed  on,  and  dragged  Sal  with  him.  There 
was  some  confusion  on  the  stage.  A  nigger,  with  a  counte- 
nance which  of  itself  moved  the  populace  to  roars  of  laughter, 
had  applied  to  be  allowed  to  compete.  Opinions  were 
divided  as  to  whether  it  would  be  fair  to  native  talent,  whilst 
there  was  a  strong  desire  to  see  a  face  that  in  its  natural 
condition  was  "  as  good  as  a  play,"  with  the  additional  at- 
tractions of  a  horse-collar  and  a  grin. 

The  country  clowns  on  the  stage  fumed,  and  the  nigger 
grinned  and  bowed,  and  the  crowd  yelled,  and  surged,  and 
swayed,  and  weak  people  got  trampled,  and  everybody  was 
tightly  squeezed,  and  the  Cheap  Jack's  wife  was  alarmed, 
and  withdrew  her  hand  from  George's  arm,  and  begged  him 
to  hold  her  up,  which  he  gallantly  did,  she  meanwhile  cling- 
ing with  both  hands  to  his  smock. 

As  to  the  hunchback,  it  is  hardly  necessary  to  say  that  he 
did  not  get  very  far  into  the  crowd,  and  when  his  wife  and 
George  returned,  laughing  gajdy,  they  found  him  standing 
outside,  with  a  sulky  face.  "  Look  here,  missus,"  said  he  ; 
"you're  a  enjoying  of  yourself,  but  I'm  not.  You've  got 
the  blunt,  so  just  hand  over  a  few  coppers,  and  I'll  get  a 
pint  at  the  King's  Arms." 

Sal  began  fumbling  to  find  her  pocket,  but  when  she 
found  it,  she  gave  a  shriek,  and  turned  it  inside  out.  It  was 
empty  ! 

If  the  miller's  man  had  enjoyed  himself  before,  he  was 
not  to  be  envied  now.  The  Cheap  Jack's  wife  poured  forth 
her  woes  in  a  continuous  stream  of  complaint.  She  min- 
utely described  the  purse  which  she  had  lost,  the  age  and 
quality  of  her  dress,  and  the  impossibility  of  there  being  a 
hole  in  her  pocket.  She  took  George's  arm  once  more,  and 
insisted  upon  revisiting  every  stall  and  show  where  they  had 
been,  to  see  if  her  purse  had  been  found.  Up  and  down 
George  toiled  with  her,  wiping  his  face  and  feeling  that  he 


94  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

looked  like  a  fool,  as  at  each  place  in  turn  they  were  told 
that  they  might  as  well  "  look  for  a  needle  in  a  bottle  of 
hay,"  and  that  pickpockets  were  as  plenty  at  a  mop  as  black' 
berries  in  September. 

He  was  tired  of  the  woman  now  she  was  troublesome,  and 
fidgetingly  persevering,  as  women  are  apt  to  be,  and  he  was 
vexed  to  feel  how  little  money  was  left  in  his  right-hand 
pocket.  He  did  not  think  of  feeling  in  the  left  one,  not 
merely  because  the  Cheap  Jack  was  standing  in  front  of 
him,  but  because  no  fear  for  the  safety  of  its  contents  had 
dawned  upon  him.  It  was  easy  for  a  woman  to  lose  her 
purse  out  of  a  pocket  flapping  loosely  in  the  drapery  of  her 
skirts,  but  that  any  thing  stowed  tightly  away  in  a  man's 
waistcoat  under  his  smock  could  be  stolen  in  broad  daylight 
without  his  knowledge  did  not  occur  to  him.  As  little  did 
he  guess  that  of  all  the  pickpockets  who  were  supposed  to 
drive  a  brisk  trade  at  the  fair,  the  quickest,  the  cleverest, 
the  most  practised  professional  was  the  Cheap  Jack's  wife^ 

She  had  feigned  to  see  "something"  on  the  ground  near 
an  oyster  stall,  which  she  said  "  might  be  "  her  purse.  As 
indeed  it  might  as  Avell  as  any  thing  else,  seeing  that  the 
said  purse  had  no  existence. 

As  she  left  them,  George  turned  to  the  Cheap  Jack. 

"  Look  'ee  here,  Jack,"  said  he;  "take  thee  missus 
whoam.  She  do  seem  to  be  so  put  about,  'tis  no  manner  of 
use  her  stopping  in  the  mop.  And  I  be  off  for  a  pint  of 
something  to  wash  my  throat  out.  I  be  mortal  dry  with 
running  up  and  down  after  she.  Women  does  make  such  a 
caddie  about  things." 

"  You  might  stand  a  pint  for  an  old  friend,  George,  my 
dear,"  said  the  Cheap  Jack,  following  him.  But  George 
hurried  on,  and  shook  his  head.  "No,  no,"  said  he;  tak' 
thee  missus  whoam,  I  tell  'ee.  She've  not  seen  much  at 
your  expense  to-day,  if  she  have  lost  her  pus." 

With  which  the  miller's  man  escaped  into  the  King's 
Arms,  and  pushed  his  way  to  the  farthest  end  of  the  room, 
where  a  large  party  of  men  wrere  drinking  and  smoking. 

At  a  table  near  him  sat  the  recruiting  sergeant  whom 
he  had  noticed  before,  and  he  now  examined  him  more 
closely. 

He  was  of  a  not  uncommon  type  of  non-commissioned 


Jan  of  the  windmill  95 

officers  in  the  English  service.  Not  of  a  very  intellectual 
— hardly  perhaps  of  an  interesting — kind  of  good  looks,  he 
was  yet  a  strikingly  handsome  man.  His  features  were  good 
and  clearly  cut ;  his  hair  and  moustache  were  dark,  thick, 
short  and  glossy ;  his  dark  eyes  were  quick  and  bright ; 
his  figure  was  well-made,  and  better  developed ;  his  shapely 
hands  were  not  only  clean,  they  were  fastidiously  trim- 
med about  the  nails  (a  daintiness  common  below  the  rank 
of  sergeant,  especially  among  men  acting  as  clerks);  and 
if  the  stone  in  his  signet  ring  was  not  a  real  onyx,  it 
looked  quite  as  well  at  a  distance,  and  the  absence  of  a 
crest  was  not  conspicuous.  He  spoke  with  a  very  good 
imitation  of  the  accent  of  the  officers  he  had  served 
with,  and  in  his  alertness,  his  well-trained  movements,  his 
upright  carriage,  and  his  personal  cleanliness,  he  came  so 
near  to  looking  like  a  gentleman  that  he  escaped  it  only  by 
a  certain  swagger,  which  proved  an  ill-chosen  substitute  for 
wrell-bred  ease. 

To  George's  eyes  this  was  not  visible  as  a  fault.  The 
sergeant  was  as  much  "  the  swell  "  as  George  could  imagine 
any  man  to  be. 

George  Sannel  could  never  remember  with  distinctness 
the  ensuing  events  of  that  afternoon.  Dim  memories  re- 
mained with  him  of  the  sergeant  meeting  his  long  stare  wTith 
some  civilities,  to  which  he  was  conscious  of  having  replied 
less  suitably  than  he  might  have  wished.  At  one  period, 
certainly,  bets  were  made  upon  the  height  of  himself  and 
the  handsome  soldier,  respectively,  and  he  was  sure  that  they 
were  put  back  to  back,  and  that  he  proved  the  taller  man ; 
and  that  it  was  somehow  impressed  upon  him  that  he  did 
not  look  so,  because  the  other  carried  himself  so  much  better. 
It  was  also  impressed  upon  him,  somehow,  that  if  he  would 
consent  to  be  well-dressed,  well-fed,  and  well-lodged,  at  the 
expense  of  the  country,  his  own  appearance  would  quickly 
rival  that  of  the  sergeant,  and  that  the  reigning  Sovereign 
would  gladly  pay,  as  well  as  keep  and  clothe,  such  an  orna- 
mental bulwark  of  the  state.  At  some  other  period  the 
sergeant  had  undoubtedly  told  him  to  "  give  it  a  name,"  and 
the  name  he  gave  it  was  sixpenny  ale,  which  he  drank  at  the 
sergeant's  expense,  and  which  was  followed  by  shandy-gaff, 
on  the  same  footing. 


96  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

At  what  time  and  for  what  reason  George  put  his  hand 
into  his  left-hand  waistcoat  pocket  he  never  could  remember. 
But  when  he  did  so,  and  found  it  empty,  the  cry  he  raised 
had  such  a  ring  of  anguish  as  might  have  awakened  pity  for 
him,  even  where  his  ill  deeds  were  fully  known. 

The  position  was  perplexing,  if  he  had  had  a  sober  head 
to  consider  it  with.  That  pickpockets  abounded  had  been 
well  impressed  upon  his  slow  intellect,  and  that  there  was  no 
means  of  tracing  property  so  lost,  in  the  crowd  and  confusion 
of  the  mop.  True,  his  property  was  worth  ''  crying,"  worth 
offering  a  reward  for.  But  the  pocket-book  was  not  his,  and 
the  letter  was  not  addressed  to  him ;  and  it  was  doubtful  if 
he  even  dare  run  the  risk  of  claiming  them. 

His  first  despair  was  succeeded  by  a  sort  of  drunken  fury, 
in  which  he  accused  the  men  sitting  with  him  of  robbing 
him,  and  then  swore  it  was  the  Cheap  Jack,  and  so 
raved  till  the  landlord  of  the  King's  Arms  expelled  him  as 
"  drunk  and  disorderly,"  and  most  of  the  company  refused 
to  believe  that  he  had  had  any  such  sum  of  money  to  lose. 

Exactly  how  or  where,  after  this,  the  sergeant  found  him, 
George  could  not  remember,  but  his  general  impression  of 
the  sergeant's  kindness  was  strong.  He  could  recall  that  he 
pumped  upon  his  head  in  the  yard  of  the  King's  Arms,  to 
sober  him,  by  George's  own  request;  and  that  it  did  some- 
what clear  his  brain,  his  remembrance  of  seeing  the  sergeant 
wipe  his  fingers  on  a  cambric  handkerchief  seems  to  prove. 
They  then  paced  up  and  down  together  arm  in  arm,  if  not 
as  accurately  in  step  as  might  have  been  agreeable  to  the 
soldier.  George  remembered  hearing  of  prize  money,  to 
which  his  own  loss  was  a  bagatelle,  and  gathering  on  the 
whole  that  the  army,  as  a  profession,  opened  a  sort  of  bound- 
less career  of  opportunities  to  a  man  of  his  peculiar  talents 
and  appearance.  There  was  something  infectious,  too,  in 
the  gay  easy  style  in  which  the  soldier  seemed  to  treat  for- 
tune, good  or  ill;  and  the  miller's  man  was  stimulated  at 
last  to  vow  that  he  was  not  such  a  fool  as  he  looked,  and 
would  "  never  say  die."  To  the  best  of  his  belief,  the  sergeant 
replied  in  terms  which  showed  that,  had  he  been  "  in  cash," 
George's  loss  would  have  been  made  good  by  him,  out  of 
pure  generosity,  and  on  the  spot. 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  97 

As  it  was,  he  pressed  upon  his  acceptance  the  sum  of  one 
shilling,  which  the  miller's  man  pocketed  with  tears. 

What  recruit  can  afterwards  remember  which  argument 
of  the  skilful  sergeant  did  most  to  melt  his  discretion  into 
valor  ? 

The  sun  had  not  dried  the  dew  from  the  wolds,  and  the 
sails  of  the  windmill  hung  idle  in  the  morning  air,  when 
George  Sannel  made  his  first  march  to  the  drums  and  fifes 
with  ribbons  flying  from  his  hat,  a  recruit  of  the  206th 
(Royal  Wiltshire)  Regiment  of  Foot. 

As  the  Cheap  Jack  and  his  wife  hastened  home  from  the 
mop,  Sal  had  some  difficulty  in  restraining  her  husband's 
impatience  to  examine  the  pocket-book  as  they  walked 
along. 

Prudence  prevailed,  however,  and  it  was  not  opened  till 
they  were  at  home  and  alone. 

In  notes  and  money,  George's  savings  amounted  to  more 
than  thirteen  pounds. 

"Pretty  well,  my  dear,"  said  the  Cheap  Jack,  grinning 
hideously.  "  And  now  for  the  letter.  Read  it  aloud,  Sal, 
my  dear ;  you're  a  better  scholar  than  me." 

Sal  opened  the  thin,  well-worn  sheet,  and  read  the  word 
"  Moerdyk,"  but  then  she  paused.  And,  like  Abel,  she 
paused  so  long  that  the  hunchback  pressed  impatiently  to 
look  over  her  shoulder. 

But  the  letter  was  written  in  a  foreign  language,  and  the 
Cheap  Jack  and  his  wife  were  no  Aviser  for  it  than  the 
miller's  man. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

MIDSUMMER     HOLIDAYS CHILD    FANCIES JAN    AND    THE 

PIG-MINDER MASTER     SALTER     AT     HOME JAN    HIRES 

HIMSELF    OUT. 

Midsummer  came,  and  the  Dame's  school  broke  up  for 

the  holidays.     Jan  had  longed  for  them  intensely.     Not  that 

he  was  oppressed   by   the   labors    of  learning,  but  that  he 

wanted  to  be  out  of  doors.     Many  a  little  one  was  equally 

7 


98  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

eager  for  the  freedom  of  the  fields,  but  the  common  child- 
love  for  hedges  and  ditches,  and  flower-picking,  and  the  like, 
was  intensified  in  Jan  by  a  deeper  pleasure  which  country 
scenes  awoke  from  the  artist  nature  within  him.  That  it  is 
no  empty  sentimentality  to  speak  of  an  artist  nature  in  a 
child,  let  the  child-memories  of  all  artists  bear  witness! 
That  they  inspired  the  poet  Wordsworth  with  one  of  his  best 
poems,  and  that  they  have  dyed  the  canvas  of  most  land- 
scape painters  with  the  indestructihle  local  coloring  of  the 
scenes  of  each  man's  childhood,  will  hardly  be  denied. 

That  this  is  against  the  wishes  and  the  theories  of  many 
excellent  people  has  nothing  to  do  with  its  truth.  If  all 
children  were  the  bluff,  hearty,  charmingly  naughty,  envi- 
ably happy,  utterly  simple  and  unsentimental  beings  that 
some  of  us  wish,  and  so  assert  them  to  be,  it  might  be  better 
for  them,  or  it  might  not — who  can  say  ?  That  the  healthy, 
careless,  rough  and  ready  type  is  the  one  to  encourage,  many 
will  agree,  who  cannot  agree  that  it  is  universal,  or  even 
much  the  most  common.  It  is  probably  from  an  imperfect 
remembrance  of  their  nursery  lives  that  some  people  believe 
that  the  griefs  of  one's  childhood  are  light,  its  joys  uncom- 
plicated, and  its  tastes  simple.  A  clearer  recollection  of  the 
favorite  poetry  and  the  most  cherished  day-dreams  of  very 
early  years  would  probably  convince  them  that  the  strongest 
taste  for  tragedy  comes  before  one's  teens,  and  inclines  to 
the  melodramatic ;  that  sentimentality  (of  some  kind)  is 
grateful  to  the  verge  of  mawkishness;  and  that  simple  tastes 
are  rather  a  result  of  culture  and  experience  than  natural 
gifts  of  infancy. 

But  in  this  rummaging  up  of  the  crude  tastes,  the  hot 
little  opinions,  the  romance,  the  countless  visions,  the  many 
affectations  of  nursery  days,  there  will  be  recalled  also  a 
very  real  love  of  nature  ;  varying,  of  course,  in  its  intensity 
from  a  mere  love  of  fresh  air  and  free  romping,  and  a  de- 
structive taste  for  nosegays,  to  a  living  romance  about  the 
daily  walks  of  the  imaginative  child, — a  world  apart,  peo- 
pled with  invisible  company,  such  as  fairies,  and  those  fancy 
friends  which  some  children  devise  for  themselves,  or  with 
the  beasts  and  flowers,  to  which  love  has  given  a  personality. 

To  the  romance  child-fancy  weaves  for  itself  about  the 
meadows  where  the  milkmaids  stand  thick  and  pale,  an4 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  99 

those  green  courts  where  lords  and  ladies  live,  Jan  added 
that  world -of  pleasure  open  to  those  gifted  with  a  keen  sense 
of  form  and  color.  Strange  gleams  under  a  stormy  sky, 
sunshine  on  some  kingfisher's  plumage  rising  from  the  river, 
and  all  the  ever-changing  beauties  about  him,  stirred  hia 
heart  with  emotions  that  he  could  not  have  defined. 

There  was  much  to  see  even  from  Dame  Datchett's  open 
door,  but  there  was  more  to  be  imagined.  Jan's  envy  of  the 
pig-minder  had  reached  a  great  height  when  the  last  school- 
day  cameo 

He  wanted  to  be  free  by  the  time  that  the  pig-herd 
brought  his  pigs  to  water,  and  his  wishes  were  fulfilled. 
The  Dame's  flock  and  the  flock  of  the  swineherd  burst  at 
one  and  the  same  moment  into  the  water-meadows,  and  Jan 
was  soon  in  conversation  with  the  latter. 

"  Thee  likes  pig-minding,  I  reckon?"  said  Jan,  stripping 
the  leaves  from  a  sallywithy  wand,  which  he  had  picked  to 
imitate  that  of  the  swineherd. 

"  Do  I  ?  "  said  the  large-coated  urchin,  wiping  his  face  with 
the  big  sleeve  of  his  blue  coat.  "  That's  aal  thee  knows 
about  un.  I  be  going  to  leave  to-morrow,  I  be.  And  if  so 
be  Master  Salter's  got  another  bwoy,  or  if  so  be  he's  not,  I 
dunno,  it  ain't  nothin'  to  I." 

Jan  learned  that  he  had  eighteen  pence  a  week  for  driv- 
ing the  pigs  to  a  wood  at  some  little  distance,  where  they 
fed  on  acorns,  beech-mast,  &c.  5  for  giving  them  water,  keep- 
ing them  together,  and  bringing  them  home  at  tea-time.  He 
allowed  that  he  could  drive  them  as  slowly  as  he  pleased, 
and  that  they  kept  pretty  well  together  in  the  wood ;  but 
that,  as  a  whole,  the  perversity  of  pigs  was  such  that — 
"  Well,  wait  till  ee  tries  it  theeself,  Jan  Lake,  that's  aal." 

Jan  had  resolved  to  do  so.  He  did  not  return  with  his 
foster-brothers  to  the  mill.  He  slipped  off  on  one  of  his 
solitary  expeditions,  and  made  his  way  to  the  farm-house  of 
Master  Salter. 

Master  Salter  and  his  wife  sat  at  tea  in  the  kitchen.  In 
the  cheerful  clatter  of  cups,  they  had  failed  to  hear  Jan's 
knock ;  but  the  sunshine  streaming  through  the  open  door- 
way being  broken  by  some  small  body,  the  farmer's  wife 
looked  hastily  up,  thinking  that  the  new-born  calf  had  got 
loose,  and  was  on  the  threshold. 


loo  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

But  it  was  Jan.  The  outer  curls  of  his  hair  gleamed  in 
the  sunlight  like  an  aureole  about  his  face.  He*  had  doffed 
his  hat,  out  of  civility,  and  he  held  it  in  one  hand,  whilst 
with  the  other  he  fingered  the  slate  that  hung  at  his  waist. 

"  Massey  upon  us  !  "  said  the  farmer,  looking  up  at  the 
same  instant.     "  And  who  be  thee  ?  " 

"  Jan  Lake,  the  miller's  son,  maester." 

"  Come  in,  come  in ! "  cried  Master  Salter,  hospitably. 
"  So  Master  Lake  have  sent  thee  with  a  message,  eh?" 

"  My  father  didn't  send  me,"  said  Jan,  gravely.  "  I  come 
myself.     Do  'ee  want  a  pig-minder,  Master  Salter  ?  " 

"  Ay,  I  wants  a  pig-minder.  But  I  reckon  thee  father 
can't  spare  Abel  for  that  now.  A  wish  he  could.  Abel 
was  careful  with  the  pigs,  he  was,  and  a  sprack  boy,  too." 

"I'll  be  careful,  main  careful,  Master  Salter,"  said  Jan, 
earnestly.     "  I  likes  pigs."     But  the  farmer  was  pondering. 

"  Jan  Lake — Jan,"  said  he.  "Be  thee  the  boy  as  draad 
out  the  sow  and  her  pigs  for  Master  Chuter's  little  gel  ?  " 
Jan  nodded. 

" Lor  massey ! "  cried  Master  Salter.  "I  told  'ee,  missus, 
about  un.  Look  here,  Jan  Lake.  If  thee  '11  draa  me  out 
some  pigs  like  them,  I'll  give  'ee  sixpence  and  a  new  slate, 
and  I'll  try  thee  for  a  week,  anyhow." 

Jan  drew  the  slate-pencil  from  his  pocket  without  reply. 
Mrs.  Salter,  who  had  been  watching  him  with  motherly  eyes, 
pushed  a  small  stool  towards  him,  and  he  began  to  draw  a 
scene  such  as  he  had  been  studying  daily  for  months  past, — 
pigs  at  the  water-side.  He  had  made  dozens  of  such 
sketches.  But  the  delight  of  the  farmer  knew  no  bounds. 
He  slapped  his  knees,  he  laughed  till  the  tears  ran  down  his 
«heeks,  and,  as  Jan  put  a  very  wicked  eye  into  the  face  of 
the  hindmost  pig,  he  laughed  merrily  also.  He  was  not  in- 
sensible of  bis  own  talents,  and  the  stimulus  of  the  farmer's 
approbation  gave  vigor  to  his  strokes. 

"  Here,  missus,"  cried  Master  Salter ;  "  get  down  our 
Etherd's  new  slate,  and  give  it  to  un ;  I'll  get  another  for 
he.  And  there's  the  sixpence,  Jan  ;  and  if  thee  minds  pigs 
as  well  as  'ee  draas  'em,  I  don't  care  how  long  'ee  minds 
mine." 

The  object  of  his  visit  being  now  accomplished,  Jan  took 
op  his  hat  to  depart,  but  an  important  omission  struck  him} 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  101 

and  he  turned  to  say,  "  What'll  'ee  give  me  for  minding 
your  pigs,  Master  Salter?" 

Master  Salter  was  economical,  and  Jan  was  small,  and 
anxious  for  the  place. 

"  A  shilling  a  week,"  said  the  farmer. 

"  And  his  tea  ?  "  the  missus  gently  suggested. 

"Well,  I  don't  mind,"  said  Master  Salter.  "A  shilling 
a  week  and  thee  tea." 

Jan  paused.  His  predecessor  had  had  eighteen  pence  for 
very  imperfect  services.  Jan  meant  to  be  beyond  reproach, 
and  felt  himself  worth  quite  as  much. 

"  I  give  the  other  boy  one  and  sixpence,"  said  the  farmer, 
"  but  thee's  very  small." 

"  I'm  sprack,"  said  Jan,  confidently.  "  And  I  be  fond  of 
pigs." 

"  Massey  upon  me,"  said  Master  Salter,  laughing  again, 
"'lis  a  peart  young  toad,  sartinly.  A  might  be  fifty  year 
old,  for  the  ways  of  un.  "Well,  thee  shall  have  a  shilling 
and  thee  tea,  or  one  and  sixpence  without,  then."  And 
seeing  that  Jan  glanced  involuntarily  at  the  table,  the  far- 
mer added,  "  Give  un  some  now,  missus.  I'll  lay  a  pound 
bill  the  child  be  hungry." 

Jan  was  hungry.  He  had  bartered  the  food  from  his 
"nunchin  bag"  at  dinner-time  for  another  child's  new 
slate-pencil.  The  cakes  were  very  good,  too,  and  Mrs. 
Salter  was  liberal.  He  rose  greatly  in  her  esteem  by  say- 
ing grace  before  meat.  He  cooled  his  tea  in  his  saucer  too, 
and  raised  it  to  his  lips  with  his  little  finger  stuck  stiffly  out 
(a  mark  of  gentility  imparted  by  Mrs.  Lake),  and  in  all 
points  conducted  himself  with  the  utmost  propriety.  "  For 
what  we  have  received  the  Lord  be  praised,"  was  his  form 
of  giving  thanks ;  to  which  Mrs.  Salter  added,  "  Amen," 
and  "  Bless  his  heart ! "  And  Jan,  picking  up  his  hat, 
lifted  his  dark  eyes  candidly  to  the  farmer's  face,  and  said 
with  much  gravity  and  decision, — 

"  I  '11  take  a  shilling  a  w  sek  and  me  tea,  Master  Salter, 
if  it  be  all  the  same  to  you.  And  thank  you  kindly,  sir. 
and  the  missus  likewise." 


108  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE    BLUE     COAT. — PIG-MINDING     AND     TREE-STUDYING — » 

LEAP      PAINTINGS. — A     STRANGER. MASTER     SWIFT     IS 

\     DISAPPOINTED. 

When  Jan  returned  to  the  windmill,  and  gravely  an- 
nounced that  he  had  hired  himself  out  as  pig-minder  to 
Master  Salter,  Mrs.  Lake  was,  as  she  said,  "  put  about." 
She  considered  pig-minding  quite  beneath  the  dignity  of  her 
darling,  and  brought  forward  every  objection  she  could  think 
of  except  the  real  one.  But  the  windmiller  had  no  romantic 
dreams  on  Jan's  behalf,  and  he  decided  that  "'twas  better 
he  should  be  aiming  a  shillin'  a  week  than  gettin'  into  mis- 
chief at  whoam."  Jan's  ambition,  however,  was  not  satis- 
fied. He  wanted  a  blue  coat,  such  as  is  worn  by  the  shep- 
herd-boys on  the  plains.  He  did  not  mind  how  old  it  was, 
but  it  must  be  large  ;  long  in  the  skirt  and  sleeves.  He  liad 
woven  such  a  romance  about  Master  Salter's  swineherd  and 
his  life,  as  he  watched  him  week  after  week  from  Dame 
Datchett's  door  with  envious  eyes,  that  even  his  coat,  with 
the  tails  almost  sweeping  the  ground,  seemed  to  Jan  to  have 
a  dignified  air.  And  there  really  was  something  to  be  said 
in  favor  of  sleeves  so  long  that  he  could  turn  them  back  into 
a  huge  cuff  in  summer,  and  turn  them  down,  Chinese  fash- 
ion, over  his  hands  in  winter,  to  keep  them  warm. 

Such  a  blue  coat  Abel  had  possessed,  but  it  was  not  suit- 
able for  mill  work,  and  Mrs.  Lake  was  easily  persuaded  to 
give  it  to  Jan.  He  refused  to  have  it  curtailed,  or  in  any 
way  adapted  to  his  figure,  and  in  it,  with  a  switch  of  his  own 
cutting,  he  presented  himself  at  Master  Salter's  farm  in  good 
time  the  following  morning. 

It  could  not  be  said  that  Jan's  predecessor  had  exagger- 
ated the  perversity  of  the  pigs  he  drove.  If  the  coat  of 
his  choice  had  a  fault  in  Jan's  estimation,  it  was  that  it 
helped  to  make  him  very  hot  as  he  ran  hither  and  thither 
after  his  flock.  But  he  had  not  studied  pig-nature  in  vain. 
He  had  a  good  deal  of  sympathy  with  its  vagaries,  and  he 
was  quite  able  to  outwit  the  pigs.  Indeed,  a  curious  attach- 
ment grew  up  between  the  little  swineherd  and  his  flock, 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  103 

some  of  whom  would  come  at  his  call,  when  he  rewarded 
their  affection,  as  he  had  gained  it,  by  scratching  their  backs 
with  a  rough  stick. 

But  there  were  times  when  their  playful  and  errant  pecul- 
iarities were  no  small  annoyance  to  him.  Jan  was  growing 
fast  both  in  mind  and  body.  Phases  of  taste  and  occupation 
succeed  each  other  very  rapidly  when  one  is  young ;  and 
there  are,  perhaps,  no  more  distinct  phases,  more  sudden 
strides,  than  in  the  art  of  painting.  With  Jan  the  pig  phase 
was  going,  and  it  was  followed  by  landscape-sketching. 

Jan  was  drawing  his  pigs  one  day  in  the  little  wood,  when 
he  fancied  that  the  gnarled  elbow  of  a  branch  near  him  had, 
in  its  outline,  some  likeness  to  a  pig's  face,  and  he  began  to 
sketch  it  on  his  slate.  But  in  studying  the  tree  the  grotesque 
likeness  was  forgotten,  and  there  burst  upon  his  mind,  as  a 
revelation,  the  sense  of  that  world  of  beauty  which  lies 
among  steins  and  branches,  twigs  and  leaves.  Painfully, 
but  with  happy  pains,  he  traced  the  branch  joint,  by  joint, 
curve  by  curve,  as  it  spread  from  the  parent  stem  and  tapered 
to  its  last  delicate  twigs.  It  was  like  following  a  river  from 
its  source  to  the  sea.  But  to  that  sea  of  summer  sky,  in 
which  the  final  ramifications  of  ins  branch  were  lost,  Jan  did 
not  reach.  He  was  abruptly  stopped  by  the  edge  of  his 
slate,  which  would  hold  no  more. 

To  remedy  this,  when  next  he  drew  trees,  he  began  the 
branches  from  the  outer  tips,  and  worked  inwards  to  the 
stem.  It  was  done  for  convenience,  but  to  this  habit  he 
used  afterwards  to  lay  some  of  the  merit  of  his  admirable 
touch  in  tree-painting.  And  so  "  pig-making  "  became  an 
amusement  of  the  past,  and  the  spell  of  the  woods  fell 
on  Jan. 

It  was  no  very  wonderful  wood  either,  this  one  where 
he  first  herded  pigs  and  studied  trees.  It  was  composed 
chiefly  of  oaks  and  beeches,  none  of  them  of  very  grand 
proportions.  But  it  was  little  cut  and  little  trodden.  The 
bramble-bowers  were  unbroken,  the  leaf-mould  was  deep 
and  rich,  and  a  very  tiny  stream,  which  trickled  out  of 
sight,  kept  mosses  ever  green  about  its  bed.  The  whole 
wood  was  fragrant  with  honeysuckle,  which  pushed  its  way 
everywhere,  and  gay  with  other  wild  flowers.  But  the 
trees  were  Jan's  delight.     He  would  lie  on  his  back  and 


104  JAN  OP  THE  WINDMILL. 

gaze  up  into  them  with  unwearying  pleasure.  He  looked  at 
his  old  etching  with  new  interest,  to  see  how  the  artist 
had  done  the  branches  of  the  willows  by  the  water-mill. 
And  then  he  would  get  Abel  to  put  a  very  sharp  point  to 
his  own  slate-pencil,  and  would  go  back  to  the  real  oaks 
and  beeches,  which  were  so  difficult  and  yet  so  fascinating 
to  him. 

He  was  very  happy  in  the  wood,  with  two  drawbacks. 
The  pigs  would  stray  when  he  became  absorbed  in  his 
sketching,  and  the  slate  and  slate-pencil,  which  did  very 
well  to  draw  pigs  in  outline,  were  miserable  implements, 
when  more  than  half  the  beauty  of  the  subject  to  be  rep- 
resented was  in  its  color.  For  the  first  evil  there  was  no 
remedy  but  to  give  chase.  Out  of  the  second  came  an 
amusement  in  favor  of  which  even  the  beloved  slate 
hung  idle. 

In  watching  beautiful  bits  of  coloring  in  the  wood,  con- 
trasted greens  of  many  hues,  some  jutting  branch  with 
yellowish  foliage  caught  by  the  sun,  and  relieved  by  a 
distance  of  blue  grays  beyond,  —  colors  and  contrasts 
which  only  grew  lovelier  as  the  heavy  green  of  midsum- 
mer was  broken  by  the  inroad  of  autumnal  tints, — Jan 
noticed  also  that  among  the  fallen  leaves  at  his  feet  there 
were  some  of  nearly  every  color  in  the  foliage  above.  At 
first  it  was  by  a  sort  of  idle  trick  that  he  matched  one 
against  the  other,  as  a  lady  sorts  silks  for  her  embroidery ; 
then  he  arranged  bits  of  the  leaves  upon  the  outline  on  his 
slate,  and  then,  the  slate  being  too  small,  he  amused  him- 
self by  grouping  the  leaves  upon  the  path  in  front  of  him 
into  woodland  scenes.  The  idea  had  been  partly  suggested 
to  him  by  a  bottle  which  stood  on  Mrs.  Salter's  mantel- 
piece, containing  colored  sands  arranged  into  landscapes ; 
a  work  of  art  sent  by  Mrs.  Salter's  sister  from  the  Isle  of 
Wight. 

The  slate  would  have  been  quite  unused,  but  for  the 
difficulties  Jan  got  into  with  his  outlines.  At  last  he 
adopted  the  plan  of  making  a  sketch  upon  his  slate,  which 
he  then  laid  beside  him  on  the  walk,  and  copied  it  in  leaves. 
More  perishable  even  than  the  pig-drawings,  the  evening 
breeze  generally  cast  these  paintings  to  the  winds,  but  none 
the  less  was  Jan  happy  with  them,  and  sometimes  in  quiet 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  105 

weather,  or  a  sheltered  nook,  they  remained  undisturbed 
for  days. 

Dame  Datchett's  school  reopened,  but  Jan  would  not  leave 
his  pigs.  He  took  the  shilling  faithfully  home  each  week  to 
his  foster-mother.  She  found  it  very  useful,  and  she  had  no 
very  high  ideas  about  education.  She  had  some  twinges  of 
conscience  in  the  matter,  but  she  had  no  strength  of  pur, 
pose,  and  Jan  went  his  own  way. 

The  tints  had  grown  very  warm  on  trees  and  leaves, 
when  Jan  one  day  accomplished,  with  much  labor,  the 
best  painting  he  had  yet  done.  It  was  of  a  scene  before  his 
eyes.  The  trees  were  admirably  grouped  ;  he  put  little  bits 
of  twigs  for  the  branches,  which  now  showed  more  than 
hitherto,  and  he  added  a  glimpse  of  the  sky  by  neatly  dove- 
tailing the  petals  of  some  bluebells  into  a  mosaic.  He  had 
turned  back  the  long  sleeves  of  his  coat,  and  had  with  diffi- 
culty kept  the  tail  of  it  from  doing  damage  to  his  fore- 
ground, and  had  perseveringly  kept  the  pigs  at  bay,  when, 
as  he  returned  with  a  last  installment  of  bluebells  to  finish 
his  sky,  he  saw  a  man  standing  on  the  path,  with  his  back 
to  him,  completely  blotting  out  the  view  by  his  very  broad 
body,  and  with  one  heel  not  half  an  inch  from  Jan's  pict- 
ure. 

He  was  a  coarsely  built  old  man,  dressed  in  threadbare 
black.  The  tones  of  his  voice  were  broad,  and  quite  unlike 
the  local  dialect.  He  was  speaking  as  Jan  came  up,  but  to 
no  companion  that  Jan  could  see,  though  his  hand  was  out- 
stretched in  sympathy  with  his  words.  He  was  looking 
upwards,  too,  as  Jan  was  wont  to  look  himself,  into  that 
azure  sky  which  he  was  trying  to  paint  in  bluebell  flowers. 

In  truth,  the  stranger  was  spouting  poetry,  and  poems 
and  recitations  were  alike  unknown  to  Jan  ;  but  something 
caught  his  fancy  in  what  he  heard,  and  the  flowers  dropped 
from  his  fingers  as  the  broad  but  not  ungraceful  accents 
broke  upon  his  ear: — 


"  The  clouds  were  pure  and  white  as  flocks  new  shorn, 
And  fresh  from  the  clear  brook ;  sweetly  they  slept 
On  the  blue  fields  of  heaven,  and  then  there  crept 
A  little  noiseless  noise  among  the  leaves, 
Born  of  the  very  sigh  that  silence  heaves ; 
For  not  the  faintest  motion  could  be  seen 
Of  all  the  shades  that  slanted  o'er  the  green,'' 


io6  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

The  old  man  paused  for  an  instant,  and,  turning  round, 
saw  Jan,  and  put  bis  heavy  foot  into  the  sky  of  Jan's  pict- 
ure. He  drew  it  back  at  Jan's  involuntary  cry,  and,  after 
a  long  look  at  the  quaint  figure  before  him,  said,  "  Are  ye 
one  of  the  fairies,  little  man?" 

But  Jan  knew  nothing  of  fairies.  ".  I  be  Jan  Lake,  from 
the  mill,''  said  he. 

"Are  ye  so?  But  that's  not  a  miller's  coat  ye' ve  on," 
said  the  old  man,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye. 

Jan  looked  seriously  at  it,  and  then  explained.  "I  be 
Master  Salter's  pig-minder  just  now,  but  I've  got  a  miller's 
thumb,  I  have." 

"  That's  well,  Master  Pig-minder ;  and  now  would  ye 
tell  an  old  man  what  ye  screamed  out  for.  Did  I  scare 
ye?" 

"Oh,  no,  sir,"  said  Jan,  civilly ;  and  he  added,  "I  liked 
that  you  were  saying." 

"  Are  ye  a  bit  of  a  poet  as  well  as  a  pig-minder,  then  ?  " 
and  waving  his  hand  with  a  theatrical  gesture  up  the  wood, 
the  old  man  began  to  spout  afresh : — 

"A  filbert  hedge  with  wild  briar  overtwined, 
And  clumps  of  woodbine  taking  the  soft  wind 
Upon  their  summer  thrones ;  there  too  should  be 
The  frequent  chequer  of  a  youngling  tree, 
That  with  a  score  of  light  green  brethren  shoots 
From  the  quaint  mossiness  of  aged  roots: 
Round  which  is  heard  a  spring-head  of  clear  waters 
Babbling-so  wildly  of  its  lovely  daughters, 
The  spreading  bluebells;  it  may  haply  mourn 
That  such  fair  clusters  should  be  rudely  torn 
From  their  fresh  beds,  and  scattered  thoughtlessly 
By  infant  hands,  left  on  the  path  to  die.'" 

Between  the  strange  dialect  and  the  unfamiliar  terseness 
of  poetry,  Jan  did  not  follow  this  very  clearly,  but  he 
caught  the  allusion  to  bluebells,  and  the  old  man  brought 
his  hand  back  to  his  side  with  a  gesture  so  expressive 
towards  the  bluebell  fragments  at  his  feet,  that  it  hardly 
needed  the  tone  of  reproach  he  gave  to  the  last  few  words 
—  "  left  on  the  path  to  die  " —  to  make  Jan  hang  his  head. 

"'Twas  the  only  blue  I  could  find,"  he  said,  looking  rue- 
fully at  the  fading  flowers. 

"  And  what  for  did  ye  want  blue,  then,  my  lad? " 

w  To  make  the  sky  with,"  said  Jan, 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  107 

"  The  powers  of  the  air  be  good  to  us ! "  said  the 
stranger,  setting  his  broad  hat  back  from  his  face,  as  if  to 
obtain  a  clearer  view  of  the  little  pig-minder.  "  Are  ye  a 
sky-maker  as  well  as  a  swineherd  ?  And  while  I'm  cate- 
chising ye,  may  I  ask  for  what  do  ye  bring  a  slate  out  pig- 
minding  and  sky-making  ?  " 

"  I  draws  out  the  trees  on  it  first,"  said  Jan,  "  and  then 
I  does  them  in  leaves.  If  you'll  come  round,"  he  added, 
shyly,  "you'll  see  it.     But  don't  tread  on  un,  please,  sir." 

The  old  man  fumbled  in  his  pocket,  from  which  he  drew 
a  shagreen  spectacle-case,  as  substantial  looking  as  himself, 
and,  planting  the  spectacles  firmly  on  his  heavy  nose,  he 
held  out  his  hand  to  Jan. 

"  There,"  said  he,  "  take  me  where  ye  will.  To  bonnie 
Elf-land,  if  that's  your  road,  where  withered  leaves  are 
gold." 

Jan  ran  round  willingly  to  take  the  hand  of  his  new 
friend.  He  felt  a  strange  attraction  towards  him.  His 
speech  was  puzzling  and  had  a  tone  of  mockery,  .but  his 
face  was  unmistakably  kind. 

"  Now  then,  lad,  which  path  do  we  go  by  ?  "  said  he. 

"  There's  only  one,"  said  Jan,  gazing  up  at  the  old  man, 
as  if  by  very  staring  with  his  black  eyes  he  could  come  to 
understand  him.  But  in  an  instant  he  was  spouting  again, 
holding  Jan  before  him  with  one  hand,  whilst  he  used  the 
other  as  a  sort  of  baton  to  his  speech : — 

"And  know'st  thou  not  yon  broad,  broad  road 
That  lies  across  the  lily  levin? 
That  is  the  path  of  sinfulness, 
Though  some  think  it  the  way  to  heaven." 

"  Go  on,  please ! "  Jan  cried,  as  the  old  man  paused. 
His  rugged  speech  seemed  plainer  in  the  lines  it  suited  so 
well,  and  a  touch  of  enthusiasm  in  his  voice  increased  the 
charm. 

"  And  know'st  thou  not  that  narrow  path 
So  thick  beset  with  thorns  and  briars? 
It  is  the  path  of  righteousness, 
And  after  it  but  few  aspires. 

"  And  know'st  thou  not  the  little  path 
That  winds  about  the  fernv  brae? 
That  is  the  road  to  bonnie  Elf-land, 
"Where  thou  and  I  this  night  maun  gae,' 


io8  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

"  Where  is  it?"  said  Jan,  earnestly.     "  Is't  a  town?" 

The  old  man  laughed.  "  I'm  thinking  it  would  be  well 
to  let  that  path  be,  in  your  company.  We'd  hardly  get 
out  under  a  year  and  a  day." 

"  I'd  go — with  you,"  said  Jan,  confidently.  Many  an 
expedition  had  he  undertaken  on  his  own  responsibility, 
and  why  not  this  ? 

"  First,  show  me  what  ye  were  going  to  show  me,"  said 
the  old  man.  "  Where's  this  sky  you've  been  manufact- 
uring? " 

"  It's  on  the  ground,  sir." 

li  On  the  ground!  And  are  ye  for  turning  earth  into 
heaven  among  your  other  trades  ? "  What  this  might 
mean  Jan  knew  not ;  but  he  led  his  friend  round,  and 
pointed  out  the  features  of  his  leaf-picture.  He  hoped  for 
praise,  but  the  old  man  was  silent, — long  silent,  though 
he  seemed  to  be  looking  at  what  Jan  showed  him.  And 
when  he  did  speak,  his  broken  words  were  addressed  to  no 
one. 

"  Wonderful !  wonderful !  The  poetry  of  't.  It 's  no 
child's  play,  this.  It's  genius.  Ay!  we  mun  see  to  it!" 
And  then,  with  clasped  hands,  he  cried,  "  Good  Lord  1 
Have  I  found  him  at  last?" 

"  Have  you  lost  something  ?  "  said  Jan. 

But  the  old  man  did  not  answer.  He  did  not  even 
speak  of  the  leaf-picture,  to  Jan's  chagrin.  But,  stroking 
the  boy's  shoulder  almost  tenderly,  he  asked,  "  Did  ye  ever 
go  to  school,  laddie?" 

Jan  nodded.     "  At  Dame  Datchett's,"  said  he. 

"  Ah !  ye  were  sorry  to  leave  school  for  pig-minding, 
weren't  ye  ?  " 

Jan  shook  his  head.  "  I  likes  pigs,"  said  he.  "I  axed 
Master  Salter  to  let  me  mind  his.  I  gets  a  shilling  a  week 
and  me  tea." 

"But  ye  like  school  better?  Ye  love  your  books,  don't 
ye?" 

Jan  shook  his  head  again. 

"I  don't  like  school,"  said  he,  "I  likes  being  in  the 
wood." 

The  oh]  man  winced  as  if  some  one  had  struck  him  in 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  109 

the  face,  then  he  muttered,  "  The  wood  !  Ay,  to  be  sure  ! 
And  such  a  school,  too !" 

Then  he  suddenly  addressed  Jan.  "Do  ye  know  me, 
my  lad  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Jan. 

"Swift — Master  Swift,  they  call  me.  You've  heard 
tell  of  Master  Swift,  the  schoolmaster  ?  " 

Jan  shrank  back.  He  had  heard  of  Master  Swift  as  a 
man  whose  stick  was  more  to  be  dreaded  than  Dame 
Datchett',  straps  and  of  his  school  as  a  place  where  liberty 
was  less  than  with  the  Dame. 

"  See  thee !  "  said  the  old  man,  speaking  broader  and 
broader  in  his  earnestness.  "If  thy  father  would  send 
thee,  —  nay,  what  am  I  saying?  —  if  I  took  thee  for 
naught  and  gladly,  thou'dst  sooner  come  to  the  old  school- 
master and  his  books  than  stay  with  pigs,  even  in  a  wood  ? 
Eh,  laddie  ?     Will  ye  come  to  school?" 

But  the  tradition  of  Master  Swift's  severity  was  strong 
in  Jan's  mind,  and  the  wood  was  pleasant  to  him,  and  he 
only  shrank  back  farther,  and  said,  "  No."  Children  often 
give  pain  to  their  elders,  of  the  intensity  of  which  they 
have  no  measure ;  but,  had  Jan  been  older  and  wiser  than 
he  was,  he  might  have  been  puzzled  by  the  bitterness  of 
the  disappointment  written  on  Master  Swift's  countenance. 

An  involuntary  impulse  made  the  old  man  break  the  blow 
by  doing  something.  With  trembling  fingers  he  folded  his 
spectacles,  and  crammed  them  into  the  shagreen  case.  But, 
when  that  was  done,  he  still  found  nothing  to  say,  and  he 
turned  his  back  and  went  away  in  silence. 

In  silence  Jan  watched  him,  half  regretfully,  and  strained 
his  ears  to  catch  something  that  Master  Swift  began  again  to 
recite : — 

"  Things  sort  not  to  my  will, 
Even  when  my  will  doth  study  Thy  renown : 
Thou  turn'st  the  edge  of  all  things  on  me  still, 
Taking  me  up  to  throw  me  down." 

Then,  lifting  a  heavy  bramble  that  had  fallen  across  his 
path,  the  schoolmaster  stooped  under  it,  and  passed  from  sight. 

And  a  sudden  gust  of  wind  coming  sharply  down  the  way 
by  which  he  went  caught  the  fragments  of  Jan's  picture,  and 
whirled  them  broadcast  through  the  wood. 


II©  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

squire  ammabt  and  his  daughter the  cheap  jack 

does  business  once  more the  white  horse  changes 

masters- 
Squire  Ammaby  was  the  most  good-natured  of  men.  He 
was  very  fond  of  his  wife,  though  she  was  somewhat  peevish, 
with  weak  health  and  nerves,  and  though  she  seemed  daily- 
less  able  to  bear  the  rough  and  ready  attentions  of  her  hus- 
band, and  to  rely  more  and  more  on  the  advice  and  assistance 
of  her  mother,  Lady  Craiksbaw.  From  this  it  came  about 
that  the  Squire's  affection  for  his  wife  took  the  shape  of 
wishing  Lady  Louisa  to  have  every  thing  that  she  wished 
for,  and  that  the  very  joy  of  his  heart  was  his  little  daughter 
Amabel. 

Amabel  was  between  three  and  four  years  old,  and  to  some 
extent  a  prodigy.  She  was  as  tall  as  an  average  child  of  six 
or  seven,  and  stout  in  proportion.  The  size  of  her  shoes 
scandalized  her  grandmother,  and  once  drew  tears  from  Lady 
Louisa  as  she  reflected  on  the  probable  size  of  Miss  Amma- 
by's  feet  by  the  time  she  was  "  presented." 

Lady  Louisa  was  tall  and  weedy  ;  the  Squire  was  tall  and 
robust.  Amabel  inherited  height  on  both  sides,  but  in  face 
and  in  character  she  was  more  like  her  father  than  her 
mother.  Indeed,  Lady  Louisa  would  close  her  eyes,  and 
Lady  Craikshaw  would  put  up  her  gold  glass  at  the  child, 
and  they  would  both  cry,  "Sadly  coarse !  Quite  an  Ammaby!  " 
Amabel  was  not  coarse,  however  ;  but  she  had  a  strength  and 
originality  of  character  that  must  have  come  from  some 
bygone  generation,  if  it  was  inherited.  She  had  a  pitying 
affection  for  her  mother.  With  her  grandmother  she  lived  at 
daggers  drawn.  She  kept  up  a  pretty  successful  struggle  for 
her  own  way  in  the  nursery.  She  was  devoted  to  her  father, 
when  she  could  get  at  him,  and  she  poured  an  almost  bound- 
less wealth  of  affection  on  every  animal  that  came  in  her 
way. 

An  uncle  had  just  given  her  a  Spanish  saddle,  and  her 
father  had  promised  to  buy  her  a  donkey.  He  had  heard  of 
one,  and  was  going  to  drive  to  the  town  to  see  the  owner. 


yAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  tit 

With  great  difficulty  Amabel  had  got  permission  from  her 
mother  and  grandmother  to  go  with  the  Squire  in  the  pony 
carriage.  As  she  had  faithfully  promised  to  "be  good,"  she 
submitted  to  be  "  well  wrapped  up,"  under  her  grandmother's 
direction,  and  staggered  downstairs  in  coat,  cape,  gaiters, 
comforter,  muffatees,  and  with  a  Shetland  veil  over  her  burn- 
ing cheeks.  She  even  displayed  a  needless  zeal  by  carrying 
a  big  shawl  in  a  lump  in  her  arms,  which  she  would  give  up 
to  no  one. 

"  No,  no  !  "  she  cried,  as  the  Squire  tried  to  take  it  from 
her.     li  Lift  me  in,  daddy,  lift  me  in  !  " 

The  Squire  laughed,  and  obeyed  her,  saying,  "  Why,  bless 
my  soul,  Amabel,  I  think  you  grow  heavier  every  day." 

Amabel  came  up  crimson  from  some  disposal  of  the  shawl 
after  her  own  ideas,  and  her  eyes  twinkled  as  he  spoke,  though 
her  fat  cheeks  kept  their  gravity.  It  was  not  till  they  were 
far  on  their  way  that  a  voice  from  below  the  seat  cried, 
"  Yap  ! " 

"  Why,  there's  one  of  the  dogs  in  the  carriage,"  said  the 
Squire. 

On  which,  clinging  to  one  of  his  arms  and  caressing  him, 
Amabel  confessed,  "  It's  only  the  pug,  dear  daddy.  I 
brought  him  in  under  the  shawl.  I  did  so  want  him  to  have 
a  treat  too.  And  grandmamma  is  so  hard !  She  hardly 
thinks  I  ought  to  have  -  treats,  and  she  never  thinks  of  treats 
for  the  dogs." 

The  Squire  only  laughed,  and  said  she  must  take  care  of 
the  dog  when  they  got  to  the  town  ;  and  Amabel  was  en- 
couraged to  ask  if  she  might  take  off  the  Shetland  veil. 
Hesitating  between  his  fear  of  Amabel's  catching  cold,  and  a 
common-sense  conviction  that  it  was  ludicrous  to  dress  her 
according  to  her  invalid  mother's  susceptibilities,  the  Squire 
was  relieved  from  the  responsibility  of  deciding  by  Amabel's 
promptly  exposing  her  rosy  cheeks  to  the  breeze,  and  they 
drove  on  happily  to  the  town.  The  Squire  had  business  with 
the  Justices,  and  Amabel  was  left  at  the  Crown.  When  he 
came  back,  Amabel  jumped  down  from  the  window  and  the 
black  blind  over  which  she  was  peeping  into  the  yard,  and 
ran  up  to  her  father  with  tears  on  her  face. 

"  Oh,  daddy  !  "  she  cried,  "  dear,  good  daddy  !  I  don't 
want  you  to  buy  me  a  donkey,  I  want  you  to  buy  me  a  horse,1* 


m  JAN  OP  THE  WINDMILL. 

"  That's  modest ! "  said  the  Squire ;  "  but  what  are  you 
crying  for  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it's  such  a  poor  horse !  Such  a  very  old,  poor 
horse ! "  cried  Amabel.  And  from  the  window  Mr.  Am- 
maby  was  able  to  confirm  her  statements.  It  was  the  Cheap 
Jack's  white  horse,  which  he  had  been  trying  to  persuade  the 
landlord  to  buy  as  a  cab-horse.  More  lean,  more  scarred, 
more  drooping  than  ever,  it  was  a  pitiful  sight,  now  and  then 
raising  its  soft  nose  and  intelligent  eyes  to  the  window,  as  if 
it  knew  what  a  benevolent  little  being  was  standing  on  a 
slippery  chair,  with  her  arms  round  the  Squire's  neck,  plead- 
ing its  cause. 

"  But  when  I  buy  horses,"  said  the  Squire,  "  I  buy  young, 
good  ones,  not  very  old  and  poor  ones." 

"  Oh,  but  do  buy  it,  daddy  !  Perhaps  it's  not  had  enough 
to  eat,  like  that  kitten  I  found  in  the  ditch.  And  perhaps 
it/11  get  fat,  like  her ;  and  mamma  said  we  wanted  an  old 
horse  to  go  in  the  cart  for  luggage,  and  I'm  sure  that  one's 
very  old.  And  that's  such  a  horrid  man,  like  hump-backed 
Richard.  And  when  nobody's  looking,  he  tugs  it,  and  beats 
it.  Oh,  I  wish  I  could  beat  him ! "  and  Amabel  danced 
dangerously  upon  the  horsehair  seat  in  her  white  gaiters  with 
impotent  indignation.  The  Squire  was  very  weak  when 
pressed  by  his  daughter,  but  at  horses,  if  at  any  thing,  he  looked 
with  an  eye  to  business.  To  buy  such  a  creature  would  be 
ludicrous.  Still,  Amabel  had  made  a  strong  point  by  what 
Lady  Louisa  had  said.  No  one,  too,  knew  better  than  the 
Squire  what  difference  good  and  hud  treatment  can  make  in 
a  horse,  and  this  one  had  been  good  once,  as  his  experienced 
eye  told  him.  He  said  he  "  would  see,"  and  strolled  into  the 
yard. 

Long  practice  had  given  the  Cheap  Jack  a  quickness  in 
detecting  a  possible  purchaser  which  almost  amounted  to  an 
extra  sense,  and  he  at  once  began  to  assail  the  Squire.  But 
a  nearer  view  of  the  white  horse  had  roused  Mr.  Ammaby's 
indignation. 

"  I  wonder,"  he  said,  "that  you're  not  ashamed  to  ex- 
hibit a  poor  beast  that's  been  so  ill-treated.  For  heaven's 
sake,  take  it  to  the  knacker's,  and  put  it  out  of  its  misery  at 
once." 

"  Look  ye,  my  lord,"  said  the  Cheap  Jack,  touching  his 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  1 13 

cap.  "The  horse  have  been  ill-treated,  I  knows.  I'm  an 
afflicted  man,  my  lord,  and  the  boy  I've  employed,  he's 
treated  him  shameful ;  and  when  a  man  can't  feed  hisself,  he 
can't  keep  his  beast  fat  neither.  That's  why  I  wants  to  get 
rid  on  him,  my  lord.  I  can't  keep  him  as  I  should,  and  I'd 
like  to  see  him  with  a  gentleman  like  yourself  as'll  do  him 
justice.  He  comes  of  a  good  stock,  my  lord.  Take  him  for 
fifteen  pound,"  he  added,  waddling  up  to  the  Squire,  "■  and 
when  you've  had  him  three  months,  you'll  sell  him  for 
thirty." 

This  was  too  much.  The  Squire  broke  out  in  a  furious 
rage. 

"  You  unblushing  scoundrel ! "  he  cried.  "  D'ye  think  I'm 
a  fool  ?  Fifteen  pounds  for  a  horse  you  should  be  fined  for 
keeping  alive !  Be  off  with  it,  and  put  it  out  of  misery." 
And  lie  turned  indignantly  into  the  inn,  the  Cheap  Jack  call- 
ing after  him,  "Say  ten  pound,  my  lord!"  the  bystanders 
giggling,  and  the  ostler  whistling  dryly  through  the  straw  in 
his  mouth,  "  Take  it  to  the  knacker's,  Cheap  John." 

"  Oh,  daddy,  dear !  have  you  got  him  !  "  cried  Amabel,  as 
the  Squire  re-entered  the  parlor. 

"  No,  my  dear  ;  the  poor  beast  isn't  fit  to  draw  carts,  my 
darling.  It's  been  so  badly  treated,  the  only  kindness  now 
is  to  kill  it,  and  put  it  out  of  pain.  And  I've  told  the  hunch- 
back so." 

It  was  a  matter  of  course  and  humanity  to  the  Squire,  but 
it  overwhelmed  poor  Amabel.  She  gasped,  "Kill  it !  "  and 
then  bursting  into  a  tlood  of  tears  she  danced  on  the  floor, 
wringing  her  hands  and  crying,  "Oh,  oh,  oh!  don't,  please, 
don't  let  him  be  killed!  Oh!  do,  do  buy  him  and  let  him 
die  comfortably  in  the  paddock.     Oh,  do,  do,  do!  " 

"  Nonsense,  Amabel,  you  mustn't  dance  like  that.  Re- 
member, you  promised  to  be  good,"  said  the  Squire.  The 
child  gulped  down  her  tears,  and  stood  quite  still,  with  her 
face  pale  from  very  misery. 

"  I  don't  want  not  to  be  good,"  said  she.  "But,  oh  dear, 
I  do  wish  I  had  some  money,  that  I  might  buy  that  poor  old 
horse,  and  let  him  die  comfortably  at  home." 

It  was  not  the  money  the  Squire  grudged  ;  it  was  against 
all  his  instincts  to  buy  a  bad  horse.  But  Amabel's  wan 
face  overcame  him,  and  he  went  out  again.     He  never  lis- 


114  7^N  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

gered  over  disagreeable  business,  and,  going  straight  up  to 
the  Cheap  Jack,  he  said,  "  My  little  girl  is  so  distressed 
about  it,  that  I'll  give  you  five  pounds  for  the  poor  brute,  to 
stop  its  sufferings." 

"  Say  eight,  my  lord,"  said  the  Cheap  Jack.  Once  more 
the  Squire  was  turning  away  in  wrath,  when  he  caught 
sight  of  Amabel's  face  at  the  window.  He  turned  back, 
and,  biting  his  lip,  said,  "  I'll  give  you  five  pounds  if  you'll 
take  it  now,  and  go.  If  you  beat  me  down  again,  I'll  offer 
you  four.  I'll  take  off  a  pound  for  every  bate  you  utter  % 
and,  when  I  speak,  I  mean  what  I  say.  Do  you  think  I 
don't  know  one  horse  from  another  ?  " 

It  is  probable  that  the  Cheap  Jack  would  have  made 
another  effort  to  better  his  bargain,  but  his  wife  had  come  to 
seek  him,  and  to  her  sharp  eyes  the  Squire's  resolution  was 
beyond  mistake. 

"  We'll  take  the  five  guineas,  and  thank  you,  sir,"  she 
said,  courtesying,  The  Squire  did  not  care  to  dispute  the 
five  shillings  which  she  had  dexterously  added,  and  he  paid 
the  sum,  and  the  worthy  couple  went  away. 

"  Miles ! "  said  the  Squire.  The  servant  he  had  brought 
with  him  in  reference  to  the  donkey  appeared,  and  touched 
his  hat. 

"  Miss  Amabel  has  persuaded  me  to  buy  this  poor  brute, 
that  it  may  die  in  peace  in  the  paddock.  Can  you  get  it 
home,  d'  ye  think  ?  " 

"I  think  I  can,  sir,  this  evening;  after  a  feed  and  some 
rest." 

The  white  horse  had  suddenly  become  a  centre  of  interest 
Jn  the  inn-yard.  Everybody,  from  the  landlord  to  the  stable- 
boy,  felt  its  legs,  and  patted  it,  and  suggested  various  lines 
of  treatment. 

Before  he  drove  away,  Mr.  Ammaby  overheard  the  land- 
lord saying,  "  He  be  a  sharp  hand,  is  the  Squire.  I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  he  brought  the  beast  round  yet."  Which,  for  his 
credit's  sake,  the  Squire  devoutly  hoped  he  might.  But, 
after  all,  he  had  his  reward  when  Amabel,  sobbing  with  joy, 
flung  her  arms  round  him,  and  cried, — 

"  Oh,  you  dear,  darling,  good  daddy !  How  I  love  you  and 
how  the  white  horse  loves  you  ! " 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  115 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

MASTER  SWIFT  AT  HOME RUFUS. — THE  EX-PIG-MINDER 

JAN    AND    THE    SCHOOLMASTER. 

It  was  a  lovely  autumn  evening  the  same  year,  when  the 
school  having  broken  up  for  the  day,  Master  Swift  returned  to 
his  home  for  tea.  He  lived  in  a  tiny  cottage  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  water-meadows  to  that  on  which  Dame  Datchett 
dwelt,  and  farther  down  towards  the  water-mill.  He  had 
neither  wife  nor  child,  but  a  red  dog  with  a  plaintive  face, 
and  the  name  of  Rufus,  kept  his  house  when  he  was  absent, 
and  kept  him  company  when  he  was  at  home. 

Rufus  was  a  mongrel.  He  was  not  a  red  setter,  though 
his  coloring  was  similar.  A  politely  disposed  person  would 
have  called  him  a  retriever,  and  his  curly  back  and  gen- 
eral appearance  might  have  carried  this  off,  but  for  his  tail, 
which,  instead  of  being  straight  and  rat-like,  was  as  plumy 
as  the  Prince  of  Wales's  feathers,  and  curled  unblushingly 
over  his  back,  sideways,  like  a  pug's.  "  It  was  a  good  one 
to  wag,"  his  master  said,  and,  apart  from  the  question  of  high 
breeding,  it  was  handsome,  and  Rufus  himself  seemed  proud 
of  it. 

Since  half-past  three  had  Rufus  sat  in  the  porch,  blink- 
ing away  positive  sleep,  with  his  pathetic  face  towards  the 
road  down  which  Master  Swift  must  come.  Unnecessarily 
pathetic,  for  there  was  every  reason  for  his  being  the  most 
jovial  of  dogs,  and  not  one  for  that  imposing  melancholy 
which  he  wore.  His  large  level  eyelids  shaded  the  pupils 
even  when  he  was  broad  awake ;  an  intellectual  forehead, 
and  a  very  long  Vandykish  nose,  with  the  curly  ears,  which 
fell  like  a  well-dressed  peruke  on  each  side  of  his  face,  gave 
him  an  air  of  disinherited  royalty.  But  he  was  in  truth  a 
mongrel,  living  on  the  fat  of  the  land ;  who,  from  the  day 
that  this  wistful  dignity  had  won  the  schoolmaster's  heart, 
had  never  known  a  care,  wanted  a  meal,  or  had  any  thing 
whatever  demanded  of  him  but  to  sit  comfortably  at  home 
and  watch  with  a  broken-hearted  countenance  for  the  school- 
master's return  from  the  labors  which  supported  them  both. 
The   sunshine   made   Rufus   sleepy,  but   he  kept  valiantly 


U$  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

watchful,  propping  himself  against  the  garden-tools  which 
stood  in  the  corner.  Flowers  and  vegetables  for  eating  were 
curiously  mixed  in  the  little  garden  that  lay  about  Master 
Swift's  cottage.  Not  a  corner  was  wasted  in  it,  and  a  thick 
hedge  of  sweet-peas  formed  a  fragrant  fence  from  the  outer 
world. 

Rufus  was  nodding,  when  he  heard  a  footstep.  He  pulled 
himself  up,  but  he  did  not  wag  his  tail,  for  the  step  was  not 
the  schoolmaster's.  It  was  Jan's.  Rufus  growled  slightly, 
and  Jan  stood  outside,  and  called,  "  Master  Swift ! "  He 
and  Rufus  both  paused  and  listened,  but  the  schoolmaster  did 
not  appear.  Then  Rufus  came  out  and  smelt  Jan  exhaustively, 
and  excepting  a  slight  favor  of  being  acquainted  with  cats,  to 
whom  Rufus  objected,  he  smelt  well.  Rufus  wagged  his  tail, 
Jan  patted  him,  and  they  sat  down  to  wait  for  the  master. 

The  clock  in  the  old  square-towered  church  had  struck  a 
quarter-past  four  when  Master  Swift  came  down  the  lane, 
and  Rufus  rushed  out  to  meet  him.  Though  Rufus  told  him 
in  so  many  barks  that  there  was  a  stranger  within,  and  that 
as  he  smelt  respectable,  he  had  allowed  him  to  wait,  the 
schoolmaster  was  startled  by  the  sight  of  Jan. 

"Why,  it's  the  little  pig-minder!"  said  he.  On  which 
Jan's  face  crimsoned,  and  tears  welled  up  in  his  black  eyes. 

"  I  bean't  a  pig -minder  now,  Master  Swift,"  said  he. 

"  And  how's  that?     Has  Master  Salter  turned  ye  off?" 

"  I  gi'ed  him  notice  I "  said  Jan,  indignantly.  "  But  I 
shan't  mind  pigs  no  more,  Master  Swift." 

"  And  why  not,  Master  Skymaker  ?  " 

"  Don't  'ee  laugh,  sir,"  said  Jan.  "  Master  Salter  he 
laughs.  '  What's  pigs  for  but  to  be  killed  ? '  says  he.  But 
I  axed  him  not  to  kill  the  little  black  un  with  the  white 
spot  on  his  ear.  It  be  such  a  nice  pig,  sir,  such  a  very  nice 
pig !  "  And  the  tears  flowed  copiously  down  Jan's  cheeks, 
whilst  Rufus  looked  abjectly  depressed.  "It  would  follow 
me  anywhere,  and  come  when  I  called,"  Jan  continued.  •'  I 
told  Master  Salter  it  be  'most  as  good  as  a  dog,  to  keep  the 
rest  together.  But  a  says  'tis  the  fattest,  and  'ull  be  the  first 
to  kill.  And  then  I  telled  him  to  find  another  boy  to  mind 
his  pigs,  for  I  couldn't  look  un  in  the  face  now,  and  know 
'twas  to  be  killed  next  month,  not  that  one  with  the  whitQ 
spot  on  hi§  ear.    It  do  be  such  a  very  nice  pig ! " 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  117 

Rufus  licked  up  the  tears  as  they  fell  over  Jan's  smock, 
and  the  schoolmaster  took  Jan  in  and  comforted  him. 
Jan  dried  his  eyes  at  last,  and  helped  to  prepare  for  tea. 
The  old  man  made  some  very  good  coffee  in  a  shaving-pot, 
and  put  cold  bacon  and  bread  upon  the  table,  and  the  three 
sat  down  to  their  meal.  Jan  and  his  host  upon  two  rush- 
bottomed  chairs,  whilst  Rufus  scrambled  into  an  arm-chair 
placed  for  his  accommodation,  from  whence  he  gazed  alter- 
nately at  the  schoolmaster  and  the  victuals  with  sad,  not  to 
say  reproachful,  eyes. 

"  I  thought  that  would  be  your  chair,"  said  Jan. 

"  Well,  it  used  to  be,"  said  Master  Swift,  apologetically. 
"  But  the  poor  beast  can't  sit  well  on  these,  and  I  relish  my 
meat  better  with  a  face  on  the  other  side  of  the  table.  He 
found  that  too  slippery  at  first,  till  I  bought  yon  bit  of  a 
patchwork-cushion  for  him  at  a  sale." 

Rufus  sighed,  and  Master  Swift  gave  him  a  piece  of  bread, 
which,  having  smelt,  he  allowed  to  lie  before  him  on  the 
table  till  his  master,  laughing,  rubbed  the  br,ead  against  the 
bacon,  with  which  additional  flavor  Rufus  seemed  content, 
and  ate  his  supper. 

"  So  you've  come  to  the  old  schoolmaster,  after  all  ? " 
said  Master  Swift:  "  that's  right,  my  lad,  that's  right." 

"'Twas  Abel  sent  me,"  said  Jan ;  "  he  said  I  was  to  take 
to  my  books.  So  I  come  because  Abel  axed  me.  For  I  be 
main  fond  of  Abel." 

"Abel  was  right,"  said  the  old  man.  "  Take  to  learning, 
my  lad.  Love  your  books, — friends  that  nobody  can  kill,  or 
part  ye  from." 

"I'd  like  to  learn  pieces  like  them  you  say,"  said  Jan. 

"So  ye  shall,  so  ye  shall !"  cried  Master  Swift.  "It's  a 
fine  thing,  is  learning  poetry.  It  strengthens  the  memory, 
and  cultivates  the  higher  faculties.  Take  some  more  bacon, 
my  lad." 

Which  Jan  did.  At  that  moment  he  was  not  reflecting  on 
his  doomed  friend,  the  spotted  pig.  Indeed,  if  we  reflected 
about  every  thing,  this  present  state  of  existence  would 
become  intolerable. 

At  much  length  did  the  schoolmaster  speak  on  the  joys  of 
learning,  and,  pointing  proudly  to  a  few  shelves  filled  by  his 
savings,  he  formally  made  Jan  "  free  of"  his  books.  "When 


n8  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL: 

ye've  learnt  to  read  them,"  he  added.  Jan  thanked  him  for 
this,  and  for  leave  to  visit  him.  But  he  looked  out  of  the 
window  instead  of  at  the  book-shelves. 

Beyond  Master  Swift's  gay  flowers  stretched  the  rich 
green  of  the  water-meads,  glowing  yellow  in  the  sunlight. 
The  little  river  hardly  seemed  to  move  in  its  zig-zag  path, 
though  the  evening  breeze  was  strong  enough  to  show  the 
silver  side  of  the  willows  that  drooped  over  it.  Jan  won- 
dered if  he  could  match  all  these  tints  in  the  wood,  and 
whether  Master  Swift  would  be  willing  to  have  leaf-pictures 
painted  on  that  table  in  the  window.  Then  he  found  that 
the  old  man  was  speaking,  though  he  only  heard  the  latter 
part  of  what  he  said.  " — a  celebrated  inventor  and  me- 
chanic, and  that's  what  you'll  be,  maybe.  Ay,  ay,  a  Great 
Man,  please  the  Lord  ;  and,  when  I'm  laid  by  in  the  church- 
yard yonder,  folks  '11  come  to  see  the  grave  of  old  Swift, 
the  great  man's  schoolmaster.  Ye  '11  be  an  inventor  yet, 
lad,  a  benefactor  to  your  kind,  and  an  honor  to  your  country. 
I'm  not  raising  false  hopes  in  ye,  without  observing  your 
qualities.  You've  the  quick  eye,  the  slow  patience,  and  the 
inventive  spark.  You  can  find  your  own  tools  and  all,  and 
don't  stop  where  other  folk  leaves  off:  witness  yon  bluebells 
ye  took  to  make  skies  with !  But,  bless  the  lad,  he's  not 
heeding  me !  Is  it  the  bit  of  garden  you're  looking  at  ? 
Come  out  then."  And,  putting  the  biography  back  in  the 
book-shelf,  the  kindly  old  man  led  Jan  out  of  doors. 

"  Say  what  you  said  in  the  wood  again,"  said  Jan. 

But  Master  Swift  laughed,  and,  stretching  his  hand  to- 
wards the  sweet -peas  hedge  began  at  another  part  of  the 
poem : — 

"  Here  are  sweet  peas  on  tiptoe  for  a  flight: 
With  wings  of  gentle  flush  o'er  delicate  white, 
And  taper  fingers  catching  at  all  things 
To  bind  them  all  about  with  tiny  rings." 

Then,  bending  towards  the  river,  he  continued  in  a  theatri- 
cal whisper  : 

"  How  silent  comes  the  water  round  that  bend! 
Not  the  minutest  whisper  does  it  send 
To  the  o'erhanging  sallows  "— 

But  here  he  stopped  suddenly,  though  Jan's  black  eyes 
were  at  their  roundest,  and  his  attention  almost  breathless. 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  119 

"  There,  there  !  I'm  an  old  fool,  and  for  making  you  as 
bad.  Poetry's  not  your  business,  you  understand  :  I'm  giv- 
ing ye  no  encouragement  to  dabble  with  the  fine  arts.  Sci- 
ence is  the  ladder  for  a  working-man  to  climb  to  fame.  In 
addition  to  which,  the  poet  Keats,  though  he  certainly  speaks 
the  very  language  of  Nature,  was  a  bit  of  a  heathen,  I'm 
afraid,  and  the  fascination  of  him  might  be  injurious  in  ten- 
der youth.  Never  mind,  child,  if  ye  love  poetry,  I'll  learn 
ye  pieces  by  the  poet  Herbert.  They're  just  true  poetry, 
and  manly,  too;  and  they're  are  a  fountain  of  experimental 
religion.  And,  if  this  style  is  too  sober  tor  your  fancy, 
Charles  Wesley's  hymns  a  retouched  with  the  very  fire  of 
religious  passion.'' 

"  Are  your  folk  religious,  Jan  ? "  he  added,  abruptly. 
And  whilst  Jan  stood  puzzling  the  question,  he  asked  with 
an  almost  official  air  of  authority,  "  Do  ye  any  of  ye  come 
to  church  ?  " 

"  My  father  does  on  club-days,"  said  Jan. 

"  And  the  rest  of  ye, — do  ye  attend  any  place  of  wor- 
ship ?  "     Jan  shook  his  head. 

"  And  I'll  dare  to  say  ye  didn't  know  I  was  the  clerk  ?  " 
said  Master  Swift.  "  There's  paganism  for  ye  in  a  Christian 
parish  !  Well,  well,  you're  coming  to  me,  lad,  and,  apart 
from  your  secular  studies,  you'll  be  instructed  in  the  Word 
of  God,  and  in  the  Church  Catechism  on  Fridays." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Jan.  He  felt  this  civility  to  be 
due,  though  of  the  schoolmaster's  plans  for  his  benefit  he  had 
a  very  confused  notion.  He  then  took  leave.  Rufus  went 
with  him  to  the  gate,  and  returned  to  his  master  with  a  look 
which  plainly  said,  "  We  could  have  done  with  him  very 
well,  if  you  had  kept  him." 

When  Jan  had  reached  a  bit  of  rising  ground,  from  which 
the  house  he  had  just  left  was  visible,  he  turned  round  to 
look  at  it  again. 

Master  Swift  was  standing  where  he  had  left  him,  gazing 
out  into  the  distance  with  painful  intensity.  The  fast-sinking 
sun  lit  up  his  heavy  face  and  figure  with  a  transforming  glow, 
and  hung  a  golden  mist  above  the  meads,  at  which  he  stared 
like  one  spellbound.  But  when  Jan  turned  to  pursue  his 
way  to  the  windmill,  the  schoolmaster  turned  also,  and  went 
back  into  the  cottage. 


lid  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE    PARISH  CHURCH. REMBRANDT THE  SNOW  SCENE- 
MASTER  swift's   AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

In  most  respects,  Jan's  conduct  and  progress  were  very 
satisfactory.  He  quickly  learned  to  read,  and  his  copy-books 
were  models. 

The  good  clerk  developed  another  talent  in  him.  Jan 
learned  to  sing,  and  to  sing  very  well ;  and  he  was  put  into 
the  choir-seats  in  the  old  church,  where  he  sang  with  enthu- 
siasm hymns  which  he  had  learned  by  heart  from  the  school- 
master. 

No  wild  weather  that  ever  blustered  over  the  downs  could,, 
keep  Jan  now  from  the  services.  The  old  church  came  to 
have  a  fascination  for  him,  from  the  low,  square  tower  with- 
out, round  which  the  rooks  wheeled,  to  the  springing  pillars, 
tlie  solemn  grey  tints  of  the  stone,  and  the  round  arches 
that  so  gratified  the  eye  within.  And  did  he  not  sit  oppo- 
site to  the  one  stained  window  i\\^,  soldiers  of  the  Common- 
wealth had  spared  to  the  parish  !  It  was  the  only  colored 
picture  Jan  knew,  and  he  knew  every  line,  every  tint  of  it, 
and  the  separate  expression  on  each  of  the  wan,  quaint  faces 
of  the  figures.  When  the  sun  shone,  they  seemed  to  smile  at 
him,  and  their  ruby  dresses  glowed  like  garments  dyed  in 
blood.  When  the  colors  fell  upon  Abel's  white  head,  Jan 
wished  with  all  his  heart  that  he  could  have  gathered  them 
as  he  gathered  leaves,  to  make  pictures  with.  Sometimes  he 
day-dreamed  that  one  of  the  figures  came  down  out  of  the 
window,  and  brought  the  colors  with  him,  and  that  he  and 
Jan  painted  pictures  in  the  other  windows,  filling  them  with 
gorgeous  hues,  and  pale,  devout  faces.  The  fancy,  empty  as 
it  was,  pleased  him,  and  he  planned  how  every  window 
should  be  done,  and  told  Abel,  to  whom  the  ingenious  fancy 
seemed  as  marvellous  as  if  the  work  had  been  accomplished. 

Abel  was  in  the  choir  too,  not  so  much  because  of  his 
voice  as  of  his  great  wish  for  it,  and  of  the  example  of  his 
good  behavior.  It  was  he  who  persuaded  Mrs.  Lake  to 
come  to  church,  and  having  once  begun  she  came  often. 
She  tried  to  persuade  her  husband  to  go,  and  told  him  how 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  121 

sweetly  the  boys'  voices  sounded,  led  by  Master  Swift's  fine 
bass,  which  he  pitched  from  a  key  which  he  knocked  upon 
his  desk.  But  Master  Lake  had  a  proverb  to  excuse  him. 
"  The  nearer  the  church,  the  further  from  God."  Not  that 
he  pretended  to  maintain  the  converse  of  the  proposition. 

Jan  learned  plenty  of  poetry ;  hymns,  which  Abel  learned 
again  from  him,  some  of  Herbert's  poems,  and  bits  of 
Keats.  But  his  favorites  were  martial  poems  by  Mrs. 
Hemans,  which  he  found  in  an  old  volume  of  collected 
verses,  till  the  day  he  came  upon  "  Marmion,"  and  gave 
himself  up  to  Sir  Walter  Scott.  He  spouted  poetry  to 
Abel  in  imitation  of  Master  Swift,  and  they  enjoyed  all,  and 
understood  about  half. 

And  yet  Jan's  progress  was  not  altogether  satisfactory  to 
his  teacher. 

To  learn  long  pieces  of  poetry  was  easy  pastime  to  him, 
but  he  was  dull  or  inattentive  when  the  schoolmaster  gave 
him  some  elementary  lessons  in  mechanics.  He  wrote  beau- 
tifully, but  was  no  prodigy  in  arithmetic.  He  drew  trees, 
windmills,  and  pigs  on  the  desks,  and  admirable  portraits  of 
the  schoolmaster,  Rufus,  and  other  local  worthies,  on  the 
margins  of  the  tables  of  weights  and  measures. 

Much  of  his  leisure  was  spent  at  Master  Swift's  cottage, 
and  in  reading  his  books.  The  schoolmaster  had  marked 
an  old  biographical  dictionary  at  pages  containing  lives  of 
"self-made"  men,  who  had  risen  as  inventors  or  improvers 
in  mechanics  or  as  discoverers  of  important  facts  of  natural 
science.  Jan  had  not  hitherto  studied  their  careers  with  the 
avidity  Master  Swift  would  have  liked  to  see,  but  one  day 
he  found  him  reading  the  fat  volume  with  deep  interest. 

"  And  whose  life  are  ye  at  now,  laddie?  "  he  asked,  with 
a  smile. 

Jan  lifted  his  face,  which  was  glowing.  "  'Tis  Rembrandt 
the  painter  I  be  reading  about.  Eh,  Master  Swift,  he  lived 
in  a  windmill,  and  he  was  a  miller's  son  ! " 

"  Maybe  he'd  a  miller's  thumb,"  Jan  added,  stretching 
out  his  own,  and  smiling  at  the  droll  idea.  "Do  'ee  know 
what  etchings  be,  then,  Master  Swift  ?  " 

"  A  kind  of  picture  that's  scratched  on  a  piece  of  copper 
with   needles,    and   costs   a  lot   of  money   to   print, ;    s&ifi 


122  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

Master  Swift,  dryly;  and  lie  turned  his  broad  back  and 
went  out. 

It  was  one  day  in  the  second  winter  of  Jan's  learning  under 
Master  Swift  that  matters  came  to  a  climax.  The  school- 
master loved  punctuality,  but  Jan  was  not  always  punctual. 
He  was  generally  better  in  this  respect  in  winter  than  in 
summer,  as  there  was  less  to  distract  his  attention  on  the 
road  to  school.  But  one  winter's  day  he  loitered  to  make  a 
sketch  on  his  slate,  and  made  matters  worse  by  putting  fin- 
ishing touches  to  it  after  he  was  seated  at  the  desk. 

It  was  not  a  day  to  suggest  sketching,  but,  turning  round 
when  he  was  about  half  way  to  the  village,  the  view  seemed 
to  Jan  to  be  exactly  suitable  for  a  slate  sketch.  The  long 
slopes  of  the  downs  were  white  with  snow ;  but  it  was  a 
dull  grayish  wliite,  for  there  was  no  sunshine,  and  the  gray- 
white  of  the  slate-pencil  did  it  justice  enough.  In  the 
middle  distance  rose  the  windmill,  and  a  thatched  cattle-shed 
and  some  palings  made  an  admirable  foreground.  On  the 
top  and  edges  of  these  lay  the  snow,  outlining  them  in 
white,  which  again  the  slate-pencil  could  imitate  effectively. 
There  only  wanted  something  darker  than  the  slate  itself  to 
do  those  parts  of  the  foreground  and  the  mill  which  looked 
darker  than  the  sky,  and  for  this  Jan  trusted  to  pen  and  ink 
when  he  reached  his  desk.  The  drawing  was  very  success- 
ful, and  Jan  was  so  absorbed  in  admiring  it  that  he  did  not 
notice  the  schoolmaster's  approach,  but  feeling  some  one  be- 
hind him,  he  fancied  it  was  one  of  the  boys,  and  held  up  the 
slate  triumphantly,  whispering,  "  Look  'ee  here  !  " 

It  was  Master  Swift  who  looked,  and  snatching  the  slate 
he  brought  it  dowrn  on  the  sharp  corner  of  the  desk,  and 
broke  it  to  pieces.  Then  he  went  back  to  his  place,  and 
spoke  neither  bad  nor  good  to  Jan  for  the  rest  of  the  school- 
time.  Jan  would  much  rather  have  been  beaten.  Once  or 
twice  he  made  essay  to  go  up  to  Master  Swift's  desk,  but  the 
old  man's  stern  countenance  discouraged  him,  and  he  finally 
shrank  into  a  corner  and  sat  weeping  bitterly.  He  sat  there 
till  every  scholar  but  himself  had  gone,  and  still  the  school- 
master did  not  speak.  Jan  slunk  out,  and  when  Master 
Swift  turned  homewards  Jan  followed  silently  in  his  foot- 
steps through  the  snow.  At  the  door  of  the  cottage,  the 
old  man  looked  round  with  a  relenting  face. 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  123 

"  I  suppose  Rufus  '11  insist  on  your  coming  in,"  said  he  ; 
and  Jan  rushing  in  hid  his  face  in  Rufus's  cuds,  and  sobbed 
heavily. 

"Tut,  tut!"  said  the  schoolmaster.  "No  more  of  that, 
child.  There's  bitters  enough  in  life,  without  being  so  prodi- 
gal of  your  tears." 

"Come  and  sit  down  with  ye,"  he  went  on.  "You're 
very  young,  lad,  and  maybe  I'm  foolish  to  be  angry  with  ye 
that  you're  not  wise.  But  yet  ye've  more  sense  than  your 
years  in  some  respects,  and  I'm  thinking  I'll  try  and  make 
ye  see  things  as  I  see  'em.  I'm  going  to  tell  ye  something 
about  myself,  if  ye'd  care  to  hear  it." 

"  I'd  be  main  pleased,  Master  Swift,"  said  Jan,  earnestly. 

"  I'd  none  of  your  advantages,  lad,"  said  the  old  man. 
"  When  I  was  your  age,  I  knew  more  mischief  than  you 
need  ever  know,  and  uncommon  little  else.  I'm  a  self-edu- 
cated man, — I  used  to  hope  I  should  live  to  hear  folk  say  a 
self-made  Great  Man.  It's  a  bitter  thing  to  have  the  ambi- 
tion without  the  genius,  to  smoulder  in  the  fire  that  great 
men  shine  by !  However,  it's  something  to  have  just  the 
saving  sense  to  know  that  ye've  not  got  it,  though  it's  taken 
a  wasted  lifetime  to  convince  me,  and  I  sometimes  think  the 
deceiving  serpent  is  more  scotched  than  killed  yet.  How- 
ever, ye  seem  to  me  to  be  likelier  to  lack  the  ambition  than 
the  genius,  so  we  may  let  that  bide.  But  there's  a  snare  of 
mine,  Jan,  that  I  mean  your  feet  to  be  free  of,  and  that's  a 
mischosen  vocation.  I'm  not  a  native  of  these  parts,  ye 
must  know.  I  come  from  the  north,  and  in  those  mining 
and  manufacturing  districts  I've  seen  many  a  man  that's  got 
an  education,  and  could  keep  himself  sober,  rise  to  own  his 
house  and  his  works,  and  have  men  under  him,  and  bring  up 
his  children  like  the  gentry.  For  mark  ye,  my  lad.  In 
such  matters  the  experiences  of  the  early  part  of  an  artisan's 
life  are  all  so  much  to  the  good  for  him,  for  they're  in  the 
working  of  the  trade,  and  the  finest  young  gentleman  has 
got  it  all  to  learn,  if  he  wants  to  make  money  in  that  line. 
I  got  my  education,  and  I  was  sober  enough,  but — Heaven 
help  me — I  must  be  a  poet,  and  in  that  line  a.  gentleman's 
son  knows  almost  from  the  nursery  many  a  thing  that  I  liad 
to  teach  myself  with  hard  labor  as  a  man,.    It  was  just  a 


124  7AN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

madness.  But  I  read  all  the  poetry  I  could  lay  my  hands 
on,  and  I  wrote  as  well." 

"  Did  you  write  poetry,  Master  Swift  ?  "  said  Jan. 

"  Ay,  Jan,  of  a  sort.  At  one  time  I  worshipped  Burns. 
And  then  I  wrote  verses  in  the  dialect  of  my  native  place, 
which,  ye  must  know,  I  can  speak  with  any  man  when  I've 
a  mind,"  said  Master  Swift,  unconscious  that  he  spoke  it 
always.  "  And  then  it  was  Wordsworth,  for  the  love  of 
nature  is  just  a  passion  with  me,  and  it's  that  that  made  the 
poet  Keats  a  new  world  to  me.  Well,  well,  now  I'm  telling 
you  how  I  came  here.  It  was  after  my  wife.  She  was 
lady's-maid  to  Squire  Ammahy's  mother,  and  the  old  Squire 
got  me  the  school.  Ah,  those  were  happy  days !  I  was  a 
godless,  rough  sort  of  a  fellow  when  she  married  me,  but  I 
became  a  converted  man.  And  let  me  tell  ye,  lad,  when  a 
man  and  wife  love  God  and  each  other,  and  live  in  the 
country,  a  bit  of  ground  like  this  becomes  a  very  garden  of 
Eden." 

"  Did  your  wife  like  your  poetry,  sir?  "  said  Jan,  on  whom 
the  idea  that  the  schoolmaster  was  a  poet  made  a  strong  im- 
pression. 

"  Ay,  ay,  Jan.  She  was  a  good  scholar.  I  Wrote  a  bit  about 
that  time  called  Love  and  Ambition,  in  the  style  of  the  poet 
Wordsworth.  It  was  as  much  as  to  say  that  Love  killed 
Ambition,  ye  understand  ?  But  it  wasn't  dead.  It  had  only 
shifted  to  another  object. 

"  We  had  a  child.  I  remember  the  first  day  his  blue  eyes 
looked  at  me  with  what  I  may  call  sense  in  'em.  He  was  in 
his  cradle,  and  there  was  no  one  but  me  with  him.  I  went 
on  like  a  fool.  '  See  thee,  my  son,'  I  said,  '  thy  father's  been 
a  bad  'un,  but  he'll  keep  thee  as  pure  as  thy  mother.  Thy 
father's  a  poor  scholar,  but  he's  not  that  dull  but  what  he'll 
make  thee  as  learned  as  the  parson.  Thy  father's  a  needy 
man,  a  man  in  a  small  way,  but  he  and  thy  mother'll  stick 
here  in  this  dull  bit  of  a  village,  content,  ay,  my  lad,  right 
happy,  so  thou'rt  a  rich  man,  and  can  see  the  world ! '  I  give 
ye  my  word,  Jan,  the  child  looked  at  me  as  if  he  understood 
it  all.  You're  wondering,  maybe,  what  made  me  hope  he'd 
do  different  to  what  I'd  done.  But,  ye  see,  his  mother  was 
just  an  angel,  and  I  reckoned  he'd  be  half  like  her.  Then 
ghe'd  liyed  with  gentlefolks  from  a  child,  and  knew  mapnerg 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  125 

and  such  like  that  I  never  learned.  And  for  as  little  as  I'd 
taught  myself,  he'd  at  any  rate  begin  where  his  father  left 
off.  He  was  all  we  had.  There  seemed  no  fault  in  him. 
His  mother  dressed  him  like  a  little  prince,  and  his  manners 
were  the  same.     Ah,  we  were  happy  !     Then  " — 

"Well,  Master  Swift?"  said  Jan,  for  the  schoolmaster 
had  paused. 

"  Can't  ye  see  the  place  is  empty?"  he  answered,  sharply. 
"Who  takes  bite  or  sup  with  me  but  Rufus?     She  died. 

"  I'd  have  gone  mad  but  for  the  boy.  All  my  thought  was 
to  make  up  her  loss  to  him.  A  child  learns  a  man  to  be  un- 
selfish, Jan.  I  used  to  think,  'God  may  well  be  the  very 
fount  of  unselfish  charity,  when  He  has  so  many  children,  so 
helpless  without  Him!'  I  think  He  taught  me  how  to  do 
for  that  boy.  I  dressed  him,  I  darned  his  socks:  what  work 
I  couldn't  do  I  put  out,  but  I  had  no  one  in.  When  1  came 
in  from  school,  I  cleaned  myself,  and  changed  my  boots,  to 
give  him  his  meals.  Rufus  and  I  eat  off  the  table-now,  but 
I  give  ye  my  word  when  he  was  alive  we'd  three  clean  cloths 
a  week,  and  he'd  a  pinny  every  day;  and  there's  a  silver  fork 
and  spoon  in  yon  drawer  I  saved  up  to  buy  him,  and  had  his 
name  put  on.  I  taught  him  too.  He  loved  poetry  as  well 
as  his  father.  He  could  say  most  of  Milton's  '  Lycidas.'  It 
was  an  unlucky  thing  to  have  learned  him  too!  Eh,  Jan! 
we're  poor  fools.  I  lay  awake  night  after  night  reconciling 
my  mind  to  troubles  that  were  never  to  come,  and  never 
dreaming  of  what  was  before  me.  I  thought  to  myself, 
'John  Swift,  my  lad,  you're  making  yourself  a  bed  of  thorns. 
As  sure  as  you  make  your  son  a  gentleman,  so  sure  he'll  look 
down  on  his  old  father  when  he  gets  up.  Can  ye  bear  that, 
John  Swift,  and  her  dead,  and  him  all  that  ye  have?'  I 
didn't  ask  myself  twice,  Jan.  Of  course  I  could  bear  it. 
Would  any  parent  stop  his  child  from  being  better  than  him- 
self because  he'd  be  looked  down  on  ?  I  never  heard  of  one. 
'I  want  him  to  think  me  rough  and  ignorant,'  says  I,  'for  I 
want  him  to  know  what's  better.  And  I  shan't  expect  him 
to  think  on  how  I've  slaved  for  him,  till  he's  children  of  his 
own,  and  their  mother  a  lady.  But  when  I'm  dead,'  I  says, 
'  and  he  stands  by  my  grave,  and  I  can't  shame  him  no  more 
with  my  common  ways,  he'll  say,  "  The  old  man  did  his  best 
for  me,"  for  he  has  his  mother's  feelings.'     I  tell  ye,  Jan,  I 


126  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL 

cried  like  a  child  to  think  of  him  standing  at  my  burying  in 
a  good  black  coat  and  a  silk  scarf  like  a  gentleman,  and  I  no 
more  thought  of  standing  at  his  than  if  he  was  bound  to  live 
for  ever.  And,  mind  ye,  I  did  all  I  could  to  improve  myself. 
I  learned  while  I  was  teaching,  and  read  all  I  could  lay  my 
hands  on.  Books  of  travels  made  me  wild.  I  was  young 
still,  and  I'd  have  given  a  deal  to  see  the  world.  But  I  was 
saving  every  penny  for  him.  '  He'll  see  it  all,'  says  I,  '  and 
that's  enough, — Italy  and  Greece,  and  Egypt,  and  the  Holy 
Land.  And  he'll  see  the  sea  (which  I  never  saw  but  once, 
and  that  was  at  Cleethorpes),  and  he'll  go  to  the  tropics,  and 
see  flowers  that  'ud  just  turn  his  old  father's  head,  and  he'll 
write  and  tell  me  of  'em,  for  he's  got  his  mother's  feelings.' 
.  .  .  My  God  !  He  never  passed  the  parish  bounds,  and 
he's  lain  alongside  of  her  in  yon  churchyard  for  five  and 
thirty  years !  " 

Master  Swift's  head  sank  upon  his  breast,  and  he  was 
silent,  as  if  in  a  trance,  but  Jan  dared  not  speak.  The  silence 
was  broken  by  Rufus,  who  got  up  and  stuffed  his  nose  into 
the  schoolmaster's  hand. 

"  Poor  lad  !  "  said  his  master,  patting  him.  "  Thou'rt  a 
good  soul,  too  !  Well,  Jan,  I'm  here,  ye  see.  It  didn't  kill 
me.  I  was  off  my  head  a  bit,  I  believe,  but  they  kept  the 
school  for  me,  and  I  got  to  work  again.  I'm  rough  pottery, 
lad,  and  take  a  deal  of  breaking.  I've  took  up  with  dumb 
animals,  too,  a  good  deal.  At  least,  they've  took  up  with  me. 
Most  of ?  em's  come,  like  Rufus,  of  themselves.  Mangy  pup- 
pies no  one  would  own,  cats  with  kettles  to  their  tails,  and  so 
on.  I've  always  had  a  bit  of  company  to  my  meals,  and 
that's  the  main  thing.  Folks  has  said  to  me,  '  Master  Swift, 
I  don't  know  how  you  can  keep  on  schooling.  I  reckon  you 
can  hardly  abide  the  sight  of  boys  now  you've  lost  your  own.' 
But  they're  wrong,  Jan  :  it  seemed  to  give  me  a  kind  of  love 
for  every  lad  I  lit  upon. 

"  Are  ye  thinking  ambition  was  dead  in  the  old  man  at 
last  ?  It  came  to  life  again,  Jan.  After  a  bit,  I  says  to  my- 
self, '  In  a  dull  place  like  this  there's  doubtless  many  a  boy 
that  might  rise  that  never  has  the  chance  that  I'd  have  given 
to  mine.     For  what  says  the  poet  Gray  ? — 

"  But  Knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page, 

Rich  with  the  spoils  of  Time,  did  ne'er  unroll."  \ 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  \Vf 

"  I  think,  Jan,  sometimes,  I'm  like  Rachel,  who'd  rather 
have  taken  to  her  servant's  children  than  have  had  none.  I 
thought,  '  If  there's  a  genius  in  obscurity  here,  I'll  come 
across  the  boy,  being  schoolmaster,  and  I'll  do  for  him  as  I'd 
have  done  for  my  own.'  Jan,  I've  seen  nigh  on  seven  genera- 
tions of  lads  pass  through  this  school,  but,  he's  never  come! 
Society's  quit  of  that  blame.  There's  been  no  '  mute,  in- 
glorious Miltons  '  here  since  I  come  to  this  place.  There's 
been  many  a  nice-tempered  lad  I've  loved,  for  I'm  fond  of 
children,  but  never  one  that  yearned  to  see  places  he'd  never 
seen,  or  to  know  things  he'd  never  heard  of.  There's  no  fool 
like  an  old  one,  and  I  think  I've  been  more  disappointed  as 
time  went  on.  I  submitted  myself  to  the  Lord's  will  years 
ago  ;  but  I  have  prayed  Him,  on  my  knees,  since  He  didn't 
see  fit  to  raise  me  and  mine,  to  let  me  have  that  satisfaction 
to  help  some  other  man's  son  to  knowledge  and  to  fame. 

"Jan  Lake,"  said  Master  Swift,  "when  I  found  you  in 
yon  wood,  I  found  what  I've  looked  for  in  vain  for  thirty-five 
years.  Have  I  been  schoolmaster  so  long,  d'ye  think,  and 
don't  know  one  boy's  face  from  another?  Lad!  is  it  possi- 
ble ye  don't  care  to  be  a  great  man  ?  " 

Jan  cared  very  much,  but  he  was  afraid  of  Master  Swift; 
and  it  was  by  an  effort  that  he  summoned  up  courage  to 
say,— 

"  Couldn't  I  be  a  great  painter,  Master  Swift,  don't  'ee 
think  ?  " 

The  old  man  frowned  impatiently.  "  What  have  I  been 
telling  ye  ?  The  Fine  Arts  are  not  the  road  to  fame  for 
working-men.  Jan,  Jan,  be  guided  by  me.  Learn  what  I 
bid  ye.  And  when  ye've  made  name  and  fortune  the  way  I 
show  ye,  ye  can  buy  paints  and  paintings  at  your  will,  and 
paint  away  to  please  your  leisure  hours." 

It  did  not  need  the  gentle  Abel's  after-counsel  to  persuade 
Jan  to  submit  himself  to  the  schoolmaster's  direction. 

"  I'll  do  as  ye  bid  me,  Master  Swift ;  indeed,  I  will,  sir," 
said  he. 

But,  when  the  pleased  old  man  rambled  on  of  fame  and 
fortune,  it  must  be  confessed  that  Jan  but  thought  of  them 
as  the  steps  to  those  hours  of  wealthy  leisure  in  which  he 
could  buy  paints  and  indulge  the  irrepressible  bent  of  Ms 
genius  without  blame. 


12&  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

THE      WHITE      HORSE      IN      CLOVER AMABEL      AND      HEB 

GUARDIANS. — AMABEL    IN    THE    WOOD -BOGY. 

The  white  horse  lived  to  see  good  days.  He  got  safely 
home,  and  spent  the  winter  in  a  comfortable  stable,  with 
no  work  but  being  exercised  for  the  good  of  his  health  by 
the  stable-boy.  It  was  expensive,  but  expense  was  not  a 
first  consideration  with  the  Squire,  and  when  he  had  once 
decided  a  matter,  be  was  not  apt  to  worry  himself  with 
regrets.  As  to  Amabel  the  very  narrowness  of  the  white 
horse's  escape  from  death  exalted  him  at  once  to  the  place 
of  first  favorite  in  her  tender  heart,  even  over  the  head 
(and  ears)  of  the  new  donkey. 

"Miss  Amabel's"  interest  in  the  car-horse  offended  her 
nurse's  idea  of  propriety,  and  met  with  no  sympathy  from 
her  mother  or  grandmother.  But  she  was  apt  to  get  her 
own  way ;  and  from  time  to  time  she  appeared  suddenly, 
like  a  fairy-imp,  in  the  stable,  where  she  majestically 
directed  the  groom  to  hold  her  up  whilst  she  plied  a  curry- 
comb on  the  old  horse's  back.  This  over,  she  would  ask 
with  dignity,  "Do  you  take  care  of  him,  Miles?"  And 
Miles,  touching  his  cap,  would  reply,  "  Certainly,  Miss,  the 
very  greatest  of  care."  And  Amabel  would  add,  "  Does 
he  get  plenty  to  eat,  do  you  think?"  "  Plenties  to  heat, 
miss,"  the  groom  would  reply.  And  she  generally  closed 
the  conversation  with,  "I'm  very  glad.  You're  a  good 
man,  Miles." 

In  spring  the  white  horse  was  turned  out  into  the  pad- 
dock, where  Amabel  had  begged  that  he  might  die  com- 
fortably. He  lived  comfortably  instead;  and  Amabel  vis- 
ited him  constantly,  and  being  perfectly  fearless  would  kiss 
his  white  nose  as  he  drooped  it  into  her  little  arms.  Her 
visits  to  the  stable  had  been  discovered  and  forbidden,  but 
the  scandal  was  even  greater  when  she  was  found  in  the 
paddock,  standing  on  an  inverted  bucket,  and  grooming 
the  white  horse  with  Lady  Louisa's  tortoise-shell  dressing' 
comb. 

"  They  wouldn't  let  me  have  the  currycomb,"  said  Ama- 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  129 

bel,  who  was  very  hot,  and  perfectly  self-satisfied.  Lady 
Louisa  was  in  despair,  but  the  Squire  laughed.  The  ladies 
of  his  family  had  been  great  horsewomen  for  generations. 

In  the  early  summer,  some  light  carting  being  required 
by  the  gardener,  he  begged  leave  to  employ  "  Miss  Ama- 
bel's old  horse,"  who  came  at  last  to  trot  soberly  to  the 
town  with  a  light  cart  for  parcels,  when  the  landlord  of 
the  Crown  would  point  him  out  in  proof  of  the  Squire's 
sagacity  in  horse-flesh. 

But  it  was  not  by  her  attachment  to  the  cart-horse  alone 
that  Amabel  disturbed  the  composure  of  the  head-nurse  and 
of  Louise  the  bonne.  She  was  a  very  Will-o'-the-wisp  for 
wandering.  She  grew  rapidly,  and  the  stronger  she  grew  the 
more  of  a  Tom-boy  she  became.  Beyond  the  paddock  lay 
another  field,  whose  farthest  wall  was  the  boundary  of  a  little 
wood,  —  the  wood  where  Jan  had  herded  pigs.  Into  this 
wood  it  had  long  been  Amabel's  desire  to  go.  But  nurses 
have  a  preference  for  the  high  road,  and  object  to  climbing 
walls,  and  she  had  not  had  her  wish.  She  had  often  peeped 
through  a  hole  in  the  wall,  and  had  smelt  honeysuckle. 
Once  she  had  climbed  half  way  up,  and  had  fallen  on  her 
back  in  the  ditch.  Louise  uttered  a  thousand  and  one 
exclamations  when  Amabel  came  home  after  this  catas- 
trophe ;  and  Nurse,  distrusting  the  success  of  any  real 
penalties  in  her  power,  fell  back  upon  imaginary  ones. 

"  I'm  sure  it's  a  mercy  you  have  got  back,  Miss  Ama- 
bel," said  she  ;  '-for  Bogy  lives  in  that  wood  ;  and,  if  you'd 
got  in,  it's  ten  to  one  he'd  have  earned  you  ofi°." 

"  You  said  Bogy  lived  in  the  cellar,"  said  Amabel. 

Nurse  was  in  a  dilemma  which  deservedly  besets  people 
who  tell  untruths.  She  had  to  invent  a  second  one  to  help 
out  her  first. 

"  That's  at  night,"  said  she  :  "  he  lives  in  the  wood  in 
the  daytime." 

"  Then  I  can  go  into  the  cellar  in  the  day,  and  the  wood 
at  night,"  retorted  Amabel ;  but  in  her  heart  she  knew  the 
latter  was  impossible. 

For  some  days  Nurse's  fable  availed.  Amabel  had  suf- 
fered a  good  deal  from  Bogy  ;  and,  though  the  fear  of  him 
did  not  seem  so  terrible  by  daylight,  she  had  no  wish  to 
meet  him.     But  one  lovely  a/terjiQon,  wandering  round  ik,9 


13©  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

field  for  cowslips,  Amabel  came  to  the  wall,  and  could  not 
but  peep  over  to  see  if  there  were  any  flowers  to  be  seen. 
She  was  too  short  to  do  this  without  climbing,  and  it  ended 
in  her  struggling  successfully  to  the  top.  There  were  vio- 
lets on  the  other  side,  and  Amabel  let  down  one  big  foot 
to  a  convenient  hole,  when  she  hoped  to  be  able  to  stoop 
and  catch  at  the  violets  without  actually  treading  in  Bogy's 
domain.  But  once  more  she  slipped  and  rolled  over, — 
this  time  into  the  wood,  Bogy  lingered,  and  she  got  on 
to  her  feet ;  but  the  wall  was  deeper  on  this  side  than  the 
other,  and  she  saw  with  dismay  that  it  was  very  doubtful 
if  she  could  get  back. 

I  think,  as  a  lule,  children  are  very  brave.  But  a  light 
heart  goes  a  long  way  towards  courage.  At  first  Amabel 
made  desperate  and  knee-grazing  efforts  to  reclimb  the 
wall,  and,  failing,  burst  into  tears,  and  danced,  and  called 
aloud  on  all  her  protectors,  from  the  Squire  tc  Miles.  No 
one  coming,  she  restrained  her  tears,  and  by  a  real  effort 
of  that  "pluck "for  which  the  Ammaby  race  is  famous 
began  to  run  along  the  wall  to  find  a  lower  point  for  climb- 
ing. In  doing  so,  she  startled  a  squirrel,  and  whizz? — 
away  he  went  up  a  lanky  tree.  What  a  tail  he  had! 
Amabel  forgot  her  terrors.  There  was  at  any  rate  some 
living  tiling  in  the  wood  besides  Bogy ;  and  she  was  now 
busy  trying  to  coax  the  squirrel  down  again  by  such  encour- 
aging noises  as  she  had  found  successful  in  winning  the 
confidence  of  kittens  and  puppies.  Amabel  was  the  victim 
of  that  weakness  for  falling  in  love  with  every  fussy,  intel- 
ligent, or  pitiable  beast  she  met  with,  which  besets  some 
otherwise  reasonable  beings,  leading  to  an  inconvenient 
accumulation  of  pets  in  private  life,  though  doubtless  in- 
valuable in  the  public  services  of  people  connected  with 
the  Zoological  Gardens. 

The  squirrel  sat  under  the  shadow  of  his  own  tail,  and 
winked.  He  had  not  the  remotest  intention  of  coming 
down.  Amabel  was  calmer  now,  and  she  looked  about 
her.  The  eglantine  bushes  were  shoulder-high,  but  she 
had  breasted  underwood  in  the  shrubberies,  and  was  not 
afraid.  Up,  up,  stretched  the  trees  to  where  the  sky  shone 
blue.  The  wood  itself  sloped  downwards ;  the  spotted 
arums  pushed    boldly  through    last  year's  ieavesj   which. 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  131 

almost  hid  the  violets;  there  were  tufts  of  primroses,  which 
made  Amabel  cry  out,  and  about  them  lay  the  exquisite 
mauve  dog-violets  in  unplucked  profusion.  And  hither  and 
thither  darted  the  little  birds  ;  red-breasts  and  sparrows, 
and  yellow  finches  and  blue  finches,  and  blackbirds  and 
thrushes,  with  their  cheerful  voices  and  soft  waistcoats, 
and,  indeed,  every  good  quality  but  that  of  knowing  how 
glad  one  would  be  to  kiss  them.  In  a  few  steps,  Amabel 
came  upon  a  path  going  zig-zag  down  the  steep  of  the 
wood,  and,  nodding  her  hooded  head  determinedly,  she 
said,  "  Amabel  is  going  a  walk.  I  don't  mind  Bogy,"  and 
followed  her  nose. 

It  is  a  pity  that  one's  skirt,  when  held  up,  does  not  divide 
itself  into  compartments,  like  some  vegetable  dishes.  One 
is  so  apt  to  get  flowers  first,  and  then  lumps  of  moss,  which 
spoil  the  flowers,  and  then  more  moss,  which,  earth  down- 
wards (as  bread  and  butter  falls),  does  not  go  to  the  rest. 
Amabel  had  on  a  nice,  new  dress,  and  it  held  things  beauti- 
fully. But  it  did  not  hold  enough,  for  at  each  step  of  the 
zig-zag  path  the  moss  grew  lovelier.  She  had  got  some  ex- 
tinguisher-moss from  the  top  of  the  wall,  and  this  now  lay 
under  all  the  rest,  which  flattened  the  extinguishers.  About 
half  way  down  the  dress  was  full,  and  some  cushion-moss 
appeared  that  could  not  be  passed  by.  Amabel  sat  down 
and  reviewed  her  treasures.  She  could  part  with  nothing, 
and  she  had  just  caught  sight  of  some  cup-moss  lichen  for 
doll's  wine-glasses.  But,  by  good  luck,  she  was  provided 
with  a  white  sun-bonnet,  as  clean  and  whole  as  her  dress ; 
and  this  she  took  off  and  filled.  It  was  less  fortunate  than 
the  scale-mosses  and  liverworts,  growing  nearer  to  the 
stream,  came  last,  and,  with  the  damp  earth  about  them,  lay 
a-top  of  eveiy  thing,  flowers,  dolls'  wine-glasses,  and  all.  It 
was  a  noble  collection — but  heavy.  Amabel's  face  flushed, 
and  she  was  slightly  overbalanced,  but  she  staggered 
sturdily  along  the  path,  which  was  now  level. 

She  had  quite  forgotten  Nurse's  warning,  when  she  came 
suddenly  upon  a  figure  crouched  in  her  path,  and  gazing  at 
her  with  large,  black  eyes.  Her  fat  cheeks  turned  pale, 
and  with  a  cry  of,  "  It's  Bogy  !  "  she  let  down  the  whole  con- 
tents of  her  dress  into  one  of  Jan's  leaf-pictureg. 


132  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

"  Don't  hurt  me  !  Don't  take  me  away !  Please,  please 
don't !  "  she  cried,  dancing  wildly. 

"  I  won't  hurt  you,  Miss.  I  be  going  to  help  you  to  pick 
'em  up,"  said  Jan.  By  the  time  he  had  returned  her  treas- 
ures to  her  skirt,  Amabel  had  regained  confidence,  especially 
as  she  saw  no  signs  of  the  black  bag  in  which  naughty  chil- 
dren are  supposed  to  be  put. 

"  "What  are  you  doing,  Bogy  ?  "  said  she. 

"  I  be  making  a  picture,  Miss,"  said  Jan,  pointing  it  out. 

"  Go  on  making  it,  please,"  said  Amabel ;  and  she  sat 
down  and  watched  him. 

"  Do  you  like  this  wood,  Bogy  ?  "  she  asked,  softly,  after  a 
time. 

"  I  do,  Miss,"  said  Jan. 

"  Why  don't  you  sleep  in  it,  then  ?  I  wouldn't  sleep  in  a 
cellar,  if  I  were  you." 

"  I  don't  sleep  in  a  cellar,  Miss." 

"Nurse  says  you  do,"  said  Amabel,  nodding  emphat- 
ically. 

Jan  was  at  a  loss  how  to  express  the  full  inaccuracy  of 
Nurse's  statement  in  polite  language,  so  he  was  silent;  rap- 
idly adding  tint  to  tint  from  his  heap  of  leaves,  whilst  the 
birds  sang  overhead,  and  Amabel  sat  with  her  two  bundles 
watching  him. 

"  I  thought  you  were  an  old  man  !  "  she  said,  at  length. 

"  Oh,  no,  Miss,"  said  Jan,  laughing. 

"  You  don't  look  very  bad,"  Amabel  continued. 

"  I  don't  think  I  be  very  bad,"  said  Jan,  modestly. 

Amabel's  next  questions  came  at  short  intervals,  like 
dropping  shots. 

" Do  you  say  your  prayers,  Bogy?" 

"  Yes,  Miss." 

"  Do  you  go  to  church,  Bogy  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Miss." 

"  Then  where  do  you  sit?" 

li  In  the  choir,  Miss  ;  the  end  next  to  Squire  Ammaby's 
big  pew." 

"  Do  you  ?"  said  Amabel.  She  had  been  threatened  with 
Bogy  for  misbehavior  in  church,  and  it  was  startling  to  find 
that  he  sat  so  near.     She  changed  the  subject,  under  a  hasty 


"I  BE  MAKING  A  PICTURE,    MISS,"  SAID  JAN.  A 

Page  138. 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  133 

remembrance  of  having  once  made  a  face  at  the  parson 
through  a  hole  in  the  bombazine  curtains. 

"  Why  don't  you  paint  with  paints,  Bogy  ?  "  said  she. 

"  I  haven't  got  none,  Miss,"  said  Jan. 

"  I've  got  a  paint-box,"  said  Amabel.  "  And,  if  you  like, 
I'll  give  it  to  you,  Bogy." 

The  color  rushed  to  Jan's  face. 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  Miss  ! "  he  cried. 

"  You  must  dip  the  paints  in  water,  you  know,  and  rub 
them  on  a  plate ;  and  don't  let  them  lie  in  a  puddle,"  said 
Amabel,  who  loved  to  dictate. 

"  Thank  you,  Miss,"  said  Jan. 

"  And  don't  put  your  brush  in  your  mouth,"  said 
Amabel. 

?'  Oh,  dear,  no,  Miss,"  said  Jan.  It  had  never  struck 
him  that  one  could  want  to  put  a  paint-brush  in  one's 
mouth. 

At  this  point  Amabel's  overwrought  energies  suddenly 
failed  her,  and  she  burst  out  crying.  "  I  don't  know  how  I 
shall  get  over  the  wall,"  said  she. 

"  Don't  'ee  cry,  Miss.     I'll  help  you,"  said  Jan. 

"I  can't  walk  any  more,"  sobbed  Amabel,  who  was,  in- 
deed, tired  out. 

"  I'll  take  'ee  on  my  back,"  said  Jan.     "  Don't  'ee  cry.*' 

With  a  good  deal  of  difficulty,  Amabel  was  hoisted  up, 
and  planted  her  big  feet  in  Jan's  hands.  It  was  no  light 
pilgrimage  for  poor  Jan,  as  he  climbed  the  winding  path. 
Amabel  was  peevish  with  weariness  ;  her  bundles  were  sadly 
in  the  way,  and  at  every  step  a  cup-moss  or  marchantia 
dropped  out,  and  Amabel  insisted  upon  its  being  picked  up. 
But  they  reached  the  wall  at  last,  and  Jan  got  her  over,  and 
made  two  or  three  expeditions  after  the  missing  mosses,  be- 
fore the  little  lady  was  finally  content. 

"  Good-by,  Bogy,"  she  said,  at  last,  holding  up  her  face  to 
be  kissed.  "  And  thank  you  very  much.  I'm  not  fright- 
ened of  you,  Bogy." 

As  Jan  kissed  her,  he  said,  smiling,  "  What  is  your  name, 
love?" 

And  she  said,  "  Amabel." 

To  her  parents  and  guardians,  Amabel  made  the  following 
•tatement :     "  I've   seen   Bogy.     I   like  him.     He  doesn't 


134  7 AN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

sleep  in  the  cellar,  so  Nurse  told  a  story.  And  he  didn't 
take  me  away,  so  that's  another  story.  He  says  his  prayers, 
and  he  goes  to  church,  so  he  can't  be  the  Bad  Man.  He 
makes  pictures  with  leaves.  He  carried  me  on  his  back, 
but  not  in  a  bag  " — 

At  this  point  the  outraged  feelings  of  Lady  Craikshaw 
exploded,  and  she  rang  the  bell,  and  ordered  Miss  Amabel 
to  be  put  to  bed  with  a  dose  of  rhubarb  and  magnesia  (with- 
out sal-volatile),  for  telling  stories. 

"  The  eau-de-Cologne,  mamma  dear,  please,"  said  Lady 
Louisa,  as  the  door  closed  on  the  struggling,  screaming, 
and  protesting  Amabel.  "Isn't  it  really  dreadful?  ButEsmer- 
elda  Ammaby  says  Henry  used  to  tell  shocking  stories  when 
he  was  a  little  boy.'' 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE     PAINT-BOX. — MASTER     LINSEED'S     SHOP. — THE     NEW 
SIGN-BOARD. — MASTER  SWIFT  AS  WILL  SCARLET. 

On  Sunday  morning  Jan  took  his  place  in  church  with 
unusual  feelings.  He  looked  here,  there,  and  everywhere 
for  the  little  damsel  of  the  wood,  but  she  was  not  to  be  seen. 
Meanwhile  she  had  not  sent  the  paint-box,  and  he  feared  it 
would  never  come.  He  fancied  she  must  be  the  Squire's  lit- 
tle daughter,  but  he  was  not  sure,  and  she  certainly  was  not 
in  the  big  pew,  where  the  back  of  the  Squire's  red  head  and 
Lady  Louisa's  aquiline  nose  were  alone  visible.  She  was  a 
dear  little  soul,  he  thought.  He  wondered  why  she  called 
him  Bogy.  Perhaps  it  was  a  way  little  ladies  had  of  ad- 
dressing their  inferiors. 

Jan  did  not  happen  to  guess  that,  Amabel  being  very 
young,  the  morning  services  were  too  long  for  her.  In  the 
afternoon  he  had  given  her  up,  but  she  was  there. 

The  old  Rector  had  reached  the  third  division  of  his  ser- 
mon, and  Lady  Craikshaw  was  asleep,  when  Amabel, 
mounting  the  seat  with  her  usual  vigor,  pushed  her  Sunday 
hood  through  the  bombazine  curtains,  and  said, — 

"  Bogy ! " 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  135 

j 

Jan  looked  up,  and  then  started  to  his  feet  as  Amabel 
stuffed  the  paint-box  into  his  hands.  "  I  pushed  it  under 
my  frock,"  she  said  in  a  stage  whisper.  "It  made  me  so 
tight !     But  grandma  is  such." 

Jan  heard  and  saw  no  more.  Amabel's  footing  was  apt 
to  be  insecure ;  she  slipped  upon  the  cushions  and  disap- 
peared with  a  crash. 

Jan  trembled  as  he  clasped  the  shallow  old  cedar-wood 
box.  He  .wondered  if  the  colors  would  prove  as  bright  as 
those  in  the  window.  He  fancied  the  wan,  ascetic  faces 
there  rejoiced  with  him.  When  he  got  home,  he  sat  under 
the  shadow  of  the  mill,  and  drew  back  the  sliding  lid  of  the 
box.  Brushes,  and  twelve  hard  color  cakes.  They  were 
Ackermann's,  and  very  good.  Cheap  paint-boxes  were  not 
made  then.  He  read  the  names  on  the  back  of  them : 
Neutral  Tint,  Prussian  Blue,  Indian  Red,  Yellow  Ochre, 
Brown  Madder,  Brown  Pink,  Burnt  Umber,  Vandyke 
Brown,  Indigo,  King's  Yellow,  Rose  Madder,  and  Ivory 
Black. 

It  says  much  for  Jan's  uprightness  of  spirit,  and  for  the 
sense  of  duty  in  which  the  schoolmaster  was  training  him, 
that  he  did  not  neglect  school  for  his  new  treasure.  Hap 
pily  for  him  the  sun  rose  early,  and  Jan  rose  with  it,  anct 
taking  his  paint-box  to  the  little  wood,  on  scraps  of  parce" 
paper  and  cap  paper,  on  bits  of  wood  and  smooth  whit6 
stones,  he  blotted-in  studies  of  color,  which  he  finished  from 
memory  at  odd  moments  in  the  windmill. 

In  the  summer  holidays,  Jan  had  more  time  for  sketching. 
But  the  many  occasions  on  which  he  could  not  take  his 
paints  with  him  led  him  to  observe  closely,  and  taught  him 
to  paint  from  memory  with  wonderful  exactness.  He  was 
also  obliged  to  reduce  his  outlines  and  condense  his  effects  to 
a  very  small  scale  to  economize  paper. 

About  this  time  he  heard  that  Master  Chuter  was  going 
to  have  a  new  sign  painted  for  the  inn.  Master  Linseed 
was  to  paint  it. 

Master  Linseed's  shop  had  been  a  place  of  resort  for  Jan 
in  some  of  his  leisure  time.  At  first  the  painter  and  deco- 
rator had  been  churlish  enough  to  him,  but,  finding  that  Jan 
was  skilful  with  a  brush,  he  employed  him  again  and  again 
to   do   his  work,   for  which   he  received  instead  of  giving 


13.6  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

thanks.  Jan  went  there  less  after  he  got  a  paint-box,  and 
could  produce  effects  with  good  materials  of  his  own,  instead 
of  making  imperfect  experiments  in  color  on  bits  of  wood  in 
the  painter's  shop. 

But  in  this  matter  of  the  new  sign-board  he  took  the 
deepest  interest.  He  had  a  design  of  his  own  for  it,  which 
he  was  most  anxious  the  painter  should  adopt.  "  Look  'ee, 
Master  Linseed,"  said  he.  "  It  be  the  Heart  of  Oak.  Now 
I  know  a  oak-tree  with  a  big  trunk  and  two  arms.  They 
stretches  out  one  on  each  side,  and  the  little  branches  closes 
in  above  till  'tis  just  like  a  heart.  'Twould  be  beautiful, 
Master  Linseed,  and  I  could  bring  'ee  leaves  of  the  oak  so 
that  'ee  could  match  the  yellows  and  greens.  And  then 
there'd  be  trees  beyond  and  beyond,  smaller  and  smaller, 
and  all  like  a  blue  mist  between  them,  thee  know.  That 
blue  in  the  paper  'ee  've  got  would  just  do,  and  with  more 
white  to  it  'twould  be  beautiful  for  the  sky.     And  " — 

"  And  who's  to  do  all  that  for  a  few  shillings  ?  "  broke  in 
the  painter,  testily.  "  And  Master  Chuter  wants  it  done 
and  hung  up  for  the  Foresters'  dinner." 

Since  the  pressing  nature  of  the  commission  was  Master 
Linseed's  excuse  for  not  adopting  his  idea  for  the  sign,  it 
seemed  strange  to  Jan  that  he  did  not  set  about  it  in  some 
fashion.  But  he  delayed  and  delayed,  till  Master  Chuter 
was  goaded  to  repeat  the  old  rumor  that  real  sign  painting 
was  beyond  his  powers. 

It  was  within  a  week  of  the  dinner  that  the  little  inn- 
keeper burst  indignantly  into  the  painter's  shop.  Master 
Linseed  was  ill  in  bed,  and  the  sign-board  lay  untouched  in 
a  corner. 

"  It  be  a  kind  of  fever  that's  on  him,"  said  his  wife. 

"  It  be  a  kind  of  fiddlestick  !  "  said  the  enraged  Master 
Chuter ;  and  turning  round  his  eye  fell  on  Jan,  who  was 
looking  as  disconsolate  as  himself.  Day  after  day  had  he 
come  in  hopes  of  seeing  Master  Linseed  at  work,  and  now  it 
seemed  indefinitely  postponed.  But  the  innkeeper's  face 
brightened,  and,  seizing  Jan  by  the  shoulder,  he  dragged 
him  from  the  shop. 

"  Look  'ee  here,  Jan  Lake,"  said  he.  "  Do  'ee  thenk 
thee  could  paint  the  sign  ?     I  dunno  what  I'd  give  'ee  if  'e@ 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  137 

could,  if  'twere  only  to  spite  that  humbugging  old  hudmedud 
yonder." 

Jan  felt  as  if  his  brain  were  on  fire.  "If  'ee  '11  get  me 
the  things,  Master  Chuter,"  he  gasped,  "  and  '11  let  me  paint 
it  in  your  place,  I'll  do  it  for  'ee  for  nothin'." 

The  innkeeper  was  not  insensible  to  this  consideration, 
but  his  chief  wish  was  to  spite  Master  Linseed.  He  lost  no 
time  in  making  ready,  and  for  the  rest  of  the  week  Jan  lived 
between  the  tallet  (or  hay-loft)  of  the  inn  and  the  wood 
where  he  had  first  studied  trees.  Master  Chuter  provided  him 
with  sheets  of  thick  whitey-brown  paper,  on  which  he  made 
water-color  studies,  from  which  he  painted  afterwards.  By 
his  desire  no  one  was  admitted  to  the  tallet,  though  Master 
Chuter's  delight  increased  with  the  progress  of  the  picture 
till  the  secret  was  agony  to  him.  Towards  the  end  of  the 
week  they  were  disturbed  by  a  scuffling  on  the  tallet  stairs, 
and  Rufus  bounced  in,  followed  at  a  slower  pace  by  the 
schoolmaster,  crying,  "  Unearthed  at  last !  " 

"  Come  in,  come  in  !  That's  right !  "  shouted  Master 
Chuter.  "  Let  Master  Swift  look,  Jan.  He  be  a  scholar, 
and  '11  tell  us  all  about  un." 

But  Jan  shrank  into  the  shadow.  The  schoolmaster  stood 
in  the  light  of  the  open  shutter,  towards  which  the  painting 
was  sloped,  and  Rufus  sat  by  him  on  his  haunches,  and 
blinked  with  all  the  gravity  of  a  critic  ;  and  in  the  half  light 
between  them  and  the  stairs  stood  the  fat  little  innkeeper, 
with  his  hands  on  his  knees,  crying,  "  There,  Master  Swift ! 
Did  'ee  ever  see  any  thing  to  beat  that?  Artis'  or  ammy- 
toor ! " 

Jan's  very  blood  seemed  to  stand  still.  As  Master  Swift 
put  on  his  spectacles,  each  fault  in  the  painting  sprang  to  the 
front  and  mocked  him.     It  was  indeed  a  wretched  daub  ! 

But  Jan  had  been  studying  the  scene  under  every  lovely 
light  of  heaven  from  dawn  to  dusk  for  a  wreek  of  summer 
days:  Master  Swift  carried  no  such  severe  test  in  his  brain. 
As  he  raised  his  head,  the  tears  were  in  his  eyes,  and  he 
held  out  his  hand,  saying,  "  My  lad,  it's  just  the  spirit  of  the 
woods." 

"  But  d'  ye  not  think  a  figure  or  so  would  enliven  it?" 
he  continued.  "  One  of  Robin  Hood's  foresters  '  chasing  the 
flying  roe '  ?  " 


138  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

"Foresters!  To  be  sure  !"  said  Master  Chuter.  "What 
did  I  say  ?-  Have  the  schoolmaster  in,  says  I.  He  be  a 
scholar,  and  knows  Avhat's  what.  Put  'em  in,  Jan,  put  'em 
in  !  there's  plenty  of  room." 

What  Jan  had  already  suffered  from  the  innkeeper's  sug- 
gestions, only  an  artist  can  imagine,  and  his  imagination 
will  need  no  help  ! 

"  I'd  be  main  glad  to  get  a  bit  of  red  in  there,"  said  Jan, 
in  a  low  voice,  to  Master  Swift ;  "  but  Robin  Hood  must  be 
in  green,  sir,  mustn't  he  ?  " 

"  There's  Will  Scarlet.  Put  Will  in,"  said  Master  Swift, 
who,  pleased  to  be  appealed  to,  threw  himself  warmly  into 
the  matter.  "  He  can  have  just  drawn  his  bow  at  a  deer 
out  of  sight."  And  with  a  charming  simplicity  the  old 
schoolmaster  flung  his  burly  figure  into  an  appropriate  attitude. 

"  Stand  so  a  minute  !  "  cried  Jan,  and  seizing  a  lump  of 
charcoal,  with  which  he  had  made  his  outlines,  he  rapidly 
sketched  Master  Swift's  figure  on  the  floor  of  the  tallet. 
Thinned  down  to  what  he  declared  to  have  been  his  dimen- 
sions in  yoiitli,  it  was  transferred  to  Jan's  picture,  and  the 
touch  of  red  was  the  culminating  point  of  the  innkeeper's  sat- 
isfaction. 

On  the  day  of  the  dinner  the  new  sign  swung  aloft.  "  It 
couldn't  dry  better  anywhere,"  said  Master  Chuter. 

Jan  "  found  himself  famous."  The  whole  parish  as- 
sembled to  admire.  The  windmiller,  in  his  amazement, 
could  not  even  find  a  proverb  for  the  occasion,  whilst  Abel 
hung  about  the  door  of  the  Heart  of  Oak,  as  if  he  had  been 
the  most  confirmed  toper,  saying  to  all  incomers,  "  Have  'ee 
seen  the  new  sign,  sir  ?     'Twas  our  Jan  did  un." 

His  fame  would  probably  have  spread  more  widely,  but 
for  a  more  overwhelming  interest  which  came  to  distract  the 
neighborhood,  and  whicli  destroyed  a  neat  little  project  of 
Master  Chiiter's  for  running  up  a  few  tables  amongst  his 
kidney-beans,  as  a  kind  of  "tea-garden"  for  folk  from  out- 
lying villages,  who,  coming  in  on  Sunday  afternoons  to 
service,  should  also  want  to  see  the  work  of  the  boy  sign- 
painter. 

It  is  a  curious  instance  of  the  inaccuracy  of  popular  im- 
pressions that,  when  Master  Linseed  died  three  days  after 
the  Foresters'  dinner,  it  whs  universally  believed  thatheh^cl 


Jan  of  the  win!) mill.  139 

been  killed  by  vexation  at  Jan's  success.  Nor  was  this  tra- 
dition the  less  firmly  fixed  in  the  village  annals,  that  the 
disease  to  which  be  bad  succumbed  spread  like  flames  in  a 
gale.  It  produced  a  slight  reaction  of  sentiment  against 
Jan.  And  his  achievement  was  absolutely  forgotten  in  the 
shadow  of  the  months  that  followed. 

For  it  was  that  year  long  known  in  the  history  of  the  dis- 
trict as  the  year  of  the  Black  Fever. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

SANITARY    INSPECTORS THE    PESTILENCE THE    PARSON. 

THE     DOCTOR THE     SQUIRE     AND     THE     SCHOOLMAS- 
TER  DESOLATION    AT     THE     WINDMILL. THE    SECOND 

ADVENT. 

I  remember  a  "  cholera  year  "  in  a  certain  big  village. 
The  activity,  of  the  sanitary  authorities  (and  many  and  vain 
had  been  the  efforts  to  rouse  them  to  activity  before)  was, 
for  them,  remarkable.  A  good  many  heads  of  households 
died  with  fearful  suddenness  and  not  less  fearful  suffering. 
Several  nuisances  were  "  seen  to,"  some  tar-barrels  were 
burnt,  and  the  scourge  passed  by.  Not  long  ago  a  woman, 
whose  home  is  in  a  court  where  some  of  the  most  flagrant 
nuisances  existed,  in  talking  to  me,  casually  alluded  to  one 
of  them.  It  had  been  ordered  to  be  removed,  she  said,  in 
the  cholera  year  when  the  gentlemen  were  going  round  ;  but 
the  cholera  went  away,  and  it  remained  among  those  things 
which  were  not  "  seen  to,"  and  for  aught  I  know  flourishes 
still.  She  was  a  sensible  and  affectionate  person.  Living 
away  from  her  home  at  that  time,  she  became  anxious  at 
once  for  the  welfare  of  her  relatives  if  they  neglected  to 
write  to  her.  But  she  had  never  an  anxiety  on  the  subject 
of  that  unremedied  abomination  which  was  poisoning  every 
breath  they  drew.  That  "the  gentlemen  who  went  round" 
felt  it  superfluous  to  have  their  orders  carried  out  when 
strong  men  were  no  longer  sickening  and  dying  within  two 
revolutions  of  the  hands  of  the  church  clock  will  surprise  no 
one  who  has  had  to  do  with  local  sanitary  officers.     They  are 


140  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

like  the  children  of  Israel,  and  will  only  do  their  duty  under 
the  pressure  of  a  plague.  The  people  themselves  are  more 
like  the  Egyptians.  Plagues  won't  convince  them.  A 
mother  with  all  her  own  and  her  neighbors'  children  sicken- 
ing about  her  would  walk  miles  in  a  burst  shoe  to  fetch  the 
doctor  or  a  big  bottle  of  medicine,  but  she  won't  walk  three 
yards  farther  than  usual  to  draw  her  house-water  from  the 
well  that  the  sewer  doesn't  leak  into.  That  is  a  fact,  not  a 
fable ;  and,  in  the  cases  I  am  thinking  of,  all  medical  re- 
monstrance was  vain.  Uneducated  people  will  take  any 
thing  in  from  the  doctor  through  their  mouths,  but  little  or 
nothing  through  their  ears. 

When  such  is  the  state  of  matters  in  busy,  stirring  dis- 
tricts, among  shrewd  artisans,  and  when  our  great  seat  of 
learning  smells  as  it  does  smell  under  the  noses  of  the  pro- 
fessors, it  is  needless  to  say  that  the  "black  fever"  found 
every  household  in  the  little  village  prepared  to  contribute 
to  its  support,  and  met  with  hardly  an  obstacle  on  its  devas- 
tating path. 

To  comment  on  Master  Salter's  qualifications  for  the  post 
of  sanitary  inspector  would  be  to  insult  the  reader's  under- 
standing. Of  course  he  owned  several  of  the  picturesque 
little  cottages  where  the  refuse  had  to  be  pitched  out  at  the 
back,  and  the  slops  chucked  out  in  front,  and  where  the  gen- 
eral arrangements  for  health,  comfort,  and  decency  were 
such  as  one  must  forbear  to  speak  of,  since,  on  such  matters, 
our  ears — Heaven  help  us ! — have  all  that  delicacy  which 
seems  denied  to  our  noses. 

If  the  causes  of  the  calamity  were  little  understood,  por- 
tents were  plentifully  noted.  The  previous  winter  had  been 
mild.  A  thunderbolt  fell  in  the  autumn.  There  was  a 
blight  on  the  gooseberries,  and  Master  Salter  had  a  calf  with 
two  heads.  As  to  the  painter,  a  screech-owl  had  been  heard 
to  cry  from  his  chimney-top,  not  three  weeks  before  his 
death. 

There  was  a  pause  of  a  day  or  so  after  Master  Linseed 
died,  and  then  victims  fell  thick  and  fast.  Children  play- 
ing happily  with  their  mimic  boats  on  the  open  drain  that 
ran  lazily  under  the  noontide  sun,  by  the  footpath  of  the 
main  street,  were  coffined  for  their  hasty  burial  before  the 
gun  had  next  reached  his  meridian.     Th«  tear*  were  hardly 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  14 1 

dry  in  their  parents'  eyes  before  these  also  were  closed  in 
their  last  sleep.  The  very  aged  seemed  to  linger  on,  but 
strong  men  sickened  and  died ;  and  at  the  end  of  the  week 
more  than  one  woman  was  left  sitting  by  an  empty  hearth, 
a  worn-out  creature  whom  Death  seemed  only  to  have  for- 
gotten to  take  away. 

At  first  there  was  a  reckless  disregard  of  infection" among 
the  neighbors.  But,  after  one  or  two  of  these  family  deso- 
lations, this  was  succeeded  by  a  panic,  and  even  the  noble 
charity  which  the  poor  commonly  show  to  each  other's 
troubles  failed,  and  no  one  could  be  got  to  nurse  the  sick  or 
bury  the  dead. 

Now  the  Rector  was  an  old  man.  Most  of  the  parish 
officers  were  aged,  and  patriarchs  in  white  smock  frocks 
were  as  plentiful  as  creepers  at  the  cottage  doors.  The 
healthy  breezes  and  the  dull  pace  at  which  life  passed  in  the 
district  seemed  to  make  men  slow  to  wear  out.  If  the 
Rector  had  profited  by  these  features  of  the  parish  in  health, 
it  must  be  confessed  that  they  had  also  had  their  influence 
on  his  career.  He  was  a  good  man,  and  a  learned  one. 
He  stuck  close  to  his  living,  and  he  was  benevolent.  But 
he  was  not  of  those  heroic  natures  Avho  can  resist  the  influ- 
ence of  the  mental  atmosphere  around  them  ;  and  in  a  dull 
parish,  in  a  sleepy  age,  he  had  not  been  an  active  person. 
Some  men,  however,  who  cannot  make  opportunities  for 
themselves,  can  do  nobly  enough  if  the  chance  comes  to 
them ;  and  this  chance  came  to  the  Rector  in  his  sixty -ninth 
year,  on  the  wings  of  the  black  fever.  To  quicken  spiritual 
life  in  the  soul  of  a  Master  Salter  he  had  not  the  courage 
even  to  attempt ;  but  a  panic  of  physical  cowardice  had  not 
a  .temptation  for  him.  And  so  it  came  about  that  of  four 
men  who  stayed  the  panic,  by  the  example  of  their  own 
courage,  who  went  from  house  to  house,  and  from  sick-bed 
to  sick-bed — who  drew  a  cordon  round  the  parish,  and  estab- 
lished kitchens  and  a  temporary  hospital,  and  nursed  the 
sick,  and  encouraged  the  living,  and  buried  the  dead, — the 
most  active  was  the  old  Rector. 

The  other  three  were  the  parish  doctor,  Squire  Ammaby, 
and  the  schoolmaster. 

On  the  very  first  rumor  of  the  epidemic,  Lady  Louisa 
had  carried  off  Amabel,  and  had  gone  with  Lady  Craikshaw 


142  JAN  OF  THE.  WINDMILL. 

to  Brighton.  Both  the  ladies  were  indignant  with  the 
Squire's  obstinate  resolve  to  remain  amongst  his  tenants. 
In  her  alarm,  Lady  Louisa  implored  him  to  sell  the  property 
and  buy  one  in  Ireland,  which  was  Lady  Craikshaw's  native 
country ;  and  the  list  she  contrived  to  run  up  of  the  draw- 
backs to  the  Ammaby  estate  would  have  driven  a  temper 
less  solid  than  her  husband's  to  distraction. 

When  the  fever  broke  out  among  the  children,  the  schools 
were  closed,  and  Master  Swift  devoted  his  whole  time  to 
laboring  with  the  parson,  the  doctor,  and  the  Squire. 

No  part  of  the  Rector's  devotion  won  more  affectionate 
gratitude  from  his  people  than  a  single  act  of  thoughtful- 
ness,  by  which  he  preserved  a  record  of  the  graves  of  their 
dead.  He  had  held  firmly  on  to  a  decent  and  reverent  bur- 
ial, and,  forseeing  that  the  poor  survivors  would  be  quite 
unable  to  afford  gravestones,  he  kept  a  strict  list  of  the 
dead,  and  where  they  were  buried,  which  was  afterwards 
transferred  to  one  large  monument,  which  was  bought  by 
subscription.  He  cut  the  village  off  from  all  communica- 
tion with  the  outer  world,  to  prevent  a  spread  of  the  disease  ; 
but  he  sent  accounts  of  the  calamity  to  the  public  papers, 
which  brought  abundant  help  in  money  for  the  needs  of  the 
parish.  And  in  these  matters  the  schoolmaster  was  his 
right-hand  man. 

The  disease  was  most  eccentric  in  its  path.  Having 
scourged  one  side  only  of  the  main  street,  it  burst  out  with 
virulence  in  detached  houses  at  a  distance.  Then  it  returned 
to  the  village,  and  after  lulls  and  outbreaks  it  ceased  as 
suddenly  as  it  began. 

It  was  about  midway  in  its  career  that  it  fell  with  all  its 
wrath  upon  Master  Lake's  windmill. 

The  mill  stood  in  a  healthy  position,  but  the  dwelling-room 
was  ill-ventilated,  and  there  were  defective  sanitary  arrange- 
ments, which  Master  Swift  had  anxiously  pointed  out  to  the 
miller.  The  plague  had  begun  in  the  village,  and  the  school- 
master trembled  for  Jan.  But  Master  Lake  was  not  to  be 
interfered  with,  and,  when  the  schoolmaster  spoke  of  poison, 
thought  himself  witty  as  he  replied, — 

"  It  be  a  uncommon  slow  pison  then,  Master  Swift." 

It  must  also  be  allowed  that  such  epidemics,  once  started, 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  143 

do  havoc  in  apparently  clean  houses  and  amongst  well-fed 
people. 

It  was  a  little  foster-sister  of  Jan's  who  sickened  first. 
She  died  within  two  days.  Her  burial  was  hasty  enough, 
but  Mrs.  Lake  had  no  time  to  fret  about  that,  for  a  second 
child  was  ill.  Like  many  another  householder,  the  poor 
windmiller  was  now  ready  enough  to  look  to  his  drains,  and 
so  forth ;  but  it  may  be  doubted  if  the  general  stirring  up  of 
dirty  places  at  this  moment  did  not  do  as  much  harm  as 
good.  It  Avas  hot, — terribly  hot.  Day  after  day  passed 
without  a  breeze  to  cool  the  burning  skins  of  the  sick,  and 
yet  it  was  not  sunshiny.  People  did  say  that  the  pestilence 
hung  like  a  murky  vapor  above  the  district,  and  hid  the  sun. 

Trades  were  slack,  corn-grinding  amongst  the  rest,  and 
Master  Lake  did  the  housework,  helped  by  Jan  and  Abel. 
He  was  stunned  by  the  suddenness  and  the  weight  of  the 
calamity  which  had  come  to  him.  He  was  very  kind  to 
Mrs.  Lake,  but  the  poor  woman  was  almost  past  any  feeling 
but  that  which,  as  a  sort  of  instinct  or  inspiration,  guided  a 
constant  watching  and  waiting  on  her  sick  children.  She 
never  slept,  and  would  not  have  eaten,  but  that  Master  Lake 
used  his  authority  to  force  some  food  upon  her.  At  this 
time  Jan's  chief  occupations  were  cookery  and  dish-washing. 
His  constant  habit  of  observation  made  all  the  experiences 
of  life  an  education  for  him  ;  he  had  often  watched  his  fos- 
ter-mother prepare  the  family  meals,  and  he  prepared  them 
now,  for  Abel  and  the  windmiller  could  not,  and  she  was 
with  the  sick  children. 

Before  the  second  child  died,  two  more  fell  ill  on  the  same 
day.  Only  Abel  and  Jan  were  still  "  about."  The  mother 
moved  like  an  automaton,  and  never  spoke.  Now  and  then 
a  deep  sigh  or  a  low  moan  would  escape  her,  and  the  miller 
would  move  tenderly  to  her  side,  and  say,  "  Bear  up,  missus  ; 
bear  up,  my  lass,"  and  then  go  back  to  his  pipe  and  his 
cherry-wood  chair,  where  he  seemed  to  grow  gray  as  he  sat. 

Master  Swift  came  from  time  to  time  to  the  mill.  He 
was  everywhere,  helping,  comforting,  and  exhorting.  Some 
said  his  face  shone  with  the  light  of  another  world,  for  which 
he  was  "  marked."  .  Others  whispered  that  the  strain  was 
telling  on  him,  and  that  it  wore  the  look  it  had  had  in  the 
brief  insanity   which  followed  his  child's    death.     But  aJJ 


144  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

agreed  that  the  very  sight  of  him  brought  help  and  consola- 
tion. The  windmiller  grew  to  watch  for  him,  and  to  lean 
on  him  in  the  helplessness  of  his  despair.  And  he  listened 
humbly  to  the  old  man's  fervid  religious  counsels.  His  own 
little  threads  of  philosophy  were  all  blowing  loose  and  use- 
less in  this  storm  of  trouble. 

The  evening  that  Master  Swift  came  up  to  arrange  about 
the  burial  of  the  second  child,  he  found  the  other  two  just 
dead.  The  first  two  had  suffered  much  and  been  delirious, 
but  these  two  had  sunk  painlessly  in  a  few  hours,  and  had 
fallen  asleep  for  the  last  time  in  each  other's  arms. 

It  did  not  lessen  the  force  of  Master  Swift's  somewhat 
stern  consolations  that  in  all  good  faith  he  conveyed  in  them 
an  expectation  that  the  Last  Day  was  at  hand.  Many  peo- 
ple thought  so,  and  it  was,  perhaps,  not  unnatural.  In 
these  days,  which  were  long  years  of  suffering,  they  were 
shut  off  from  the  rest  of  humanity,  and  the  village  was 
the  world  to  them, — a  world  very  near  its  end.  With 
Death  so  busy,  it  seemed  as  if  Judgment  could  hardly  linger 
long. 

It  is  true  that  this  did  not  form  a  part  of  the  Rector's 
religious  exhortations.  But  some  good  people  were  shocked 
by  the  tea-party  that  he  gave  to  the  young  people  of  the 
place,  and  the  games  that  followed  it  in  the  Rectory  meads, 
at  the  very  height  of  the  fever ;  though  the  doctor  said  it 
was  better  than  a  hogshead  of  medicine. 

"  To  encourage  low  spirits  in  this  panic  is  just  to  promote 
euicide,  if  ye  like  the  responsibeelity  of  that,"  said  the  doc- 
tor to  Master  Swift,  who  had  confided  his  doubts  as  to  the 
seemliness  of  the  entertainment.  "  I  tell  ye  there's  a  lairge 
proportion  of  folk  dies  just  because  their  neighbors  have 
died  before  them,  for  the  want  of  their  attention  being 
directed  to  something  else.  Away  wi'  ye,  schoolmaster,  and 
take  your  tuning-fork  to  ask  the  blessing  wi'.  "What  says  the 
Scripture,  man  ?  '  The  living,  the  living,  he  shall  praise 
Thee!'" 

The  doctor  was  a  Scotchman,  and  Master  Swift  always 
listened  with  sympathy  to  a  North  countryman.  He  was 
convinced,  too,  and  took  his  tuning-fork  to  the  meads,  and 
led  the  grace. 

JSor  could  his  expectation  of  the  speedy  end  of  all  things 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  145 

restrain  his  instinctive  anxiety  and  watchfulness  for  Jan's 
health.  On  the  evening  of  that  visit  to  the  mill,  he  used 
some  little  manoeuvring  to  accomplish  Jan's  being  sent  back 
with  him  to  the  village,  to  arrange  for  the  burial  of  the 
three  children. 

A  glow  of  satisfaction  suffused  his  rough  face  as  he  got 
Jan  out  of  the  tainted  house  into  the  fresh  evening  air, 
though  it  paled  again  before  that  other  look,  which  was  now 
habitual  to  him,  as,  waving  his  hand  towards  the  ripening 
corn-fields,  he  quoted  from  one  of  Mr.  Herbert's  loftiest 
hymns, — 

"  We  talk  of  harvests,— there  are  no  such  things, 

But  when  we  leave  our  corn  and  hay. 
There  is  no  fruitful  year  but  that  which  brings 
The  last  and  loved,  though  dreadful  Day. 
Oh,  show  Thyself  to  me, 
Or  take  me  up  to  Thee  ! " 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

THE     BEASTS      OP      THE      VILLAGE ABEL      SICKENS THE 

GOOD  SHEPHERD RUFUS    PLATS  THE    PHILANTHROPIST. 

MASTER    SWIFT    SEES    THE    SUN    RISE THE  DEATH  OF 

THE  RIGHTEOUS. 

Amid  the  havoc  made  by  the  fever  amongst  men,  women, 
and  children,  the  immunity  of  the  beasts  and  birds  had  a 
sad  strangeness. 

There  was  a  small  herd  of  pigs  which  changed  hands  three 
times  in  ten  days.  The  last  purchaser  hesitated,  and  was 
only  induced  by  the  cheapness  of  the  bargain  to  suppress  a 
feeling  that  they  brought  ill-luck.  Cats  mewed  wistfully 
about  desolated  hearths.  One  dog  moaned  near  the  big 
grave  in  which  his  master  lay,  and  others,  with  sad  sagacious 
eyes,  went  to  look  for  new  friends  and  homes. 

It  was  a  day  or  two  after  the  burial  of  the  miller's  three 
children,  that,  as  Jan  sat  at  dinner  with  Abel  and  his  two 
parents,  he  was  struck  by  the  way  in  which  the  mill  cats 
hung  about  Abel,  purring  and  rubbing  themselves  against  his 
legs. 

10 


146  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

"  I  do  think  they  misses  the  others,"  lie  whispered  to  his 
foster-brother,  and  his  tears  fell  thick  and  fast  on  to  his 
plate. 

Abel  made  no  answer.  He  did  not  wish  Jan  to  know  that 
he  had  given  all  his  food  by  bits  to  the  cats,  because  he  could 
not  swallow  it  himself.  But,  later  in  the  day,  Jan  found 
him  in  the  round-house,  lying  on  an  empty  sack,  with  his 
head  against  a  full  one. 

"  Don't  'ee  tell  mother,"  he  said;  "but  I  do  feel  bad." 

And  as  Jan  sat  down,  and  put  his  arms  about  him,  on  the 
very  spot  where  they  had  so  often  sat  together,  learning  the 
alphabet  and  educating  their  thumbs,  Abel  laid  his  head  on 
his  foster-brother's  shoulder,  saying, — 

"  I  do  think,  Janny  dear,  that  Mary,  she  wants  me,  and 
the  others  too.  I  think  I  be  going  after  them.  But  thee'll 
look  to  mother,  Janny  dear,  eh?" 

"  But  /want  thee,  too,  Abel  dear,"  sobbed  Jan. 

"  I  be  thinking  perhaps  them  that  brought  thee  hither  '11 
fetch  thee  away  some  day,  Jan.  But  thee'll  see  to  mother?" 
repeated  Abel,  his  eyes  wandering  restlessly  with  a  look  of 
pain. 

Jan  knew  now  that  he  was  only  an  adopted  child  of  the 
windmill,  though  he  stoutly  ignored  the  fact,  being  very 
fond  of  his  foster-parents. 

Abel's  illness  came  with  the  force  of  a  fresh  blow.  There, 
had  been  a  slight  pause  in  the  course  of  the  fever  at  the  mill, 
and  it  seemed  as  if  these  two  boys  were  to  be  spared.  Abel 
had  been  busy  helping  his  father  to  burn  the  infected  bed* 
ding,  &c,  that  very  morning,  and  at  night  he  lay  raving. 

He  raved  of  Jan's  picture  which  swung  unheeded  above 
Master  Chuter's  door,  and  confused  it  with  some  church-win* 
dow  that'  he  seemed  to  fancy  Jan  had  painted  ;  then  of  hi* 
dead  brothers  and  sisters.  And  then  from  time  to  time  he 
rambled  about  a  great  flock  of  sheep  which  he  saw  covering 
the  vast  plains  about  the  windmill,  and  which  he  wearied 
himself  in  trying  to  count.  And,  as  he  tossed,  he  com- 
plained in  piteous  tones  about  some  man  who  seemed  to  be 
the  shepherd,  and  who  would  not  do  something  that  Abel 
wanted. 

For  the  most  part,  he  knew  no  one  but  Jan,  and  then  only 
when  Jan  touched  him.  It  seemed  to  give  him  pleasure.  He 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  147 

understood  nothing  that  was  said  to  him,  except  in  brief  in- 
tervals. Once,  after  a  short  sleep,  he  opened  his  eyes  and 
recognized  the  schoolmaster. 

"  Master  Swift,"  said  he,  "  do  'ee  think  that  be  our  Lord 
among  them  sheep  ?  With  His  hair  falling  on  's  shoulders, 
and  the  light  round  His  head,  and  the  long  frock  ?  " 

Master  Swift's  eyes  turned  involuntarily  in  the  direction 
in  which  Abel's  were  gazing.  He  saw  nothing  but  the  dark 
corners  of  the  dwelling-room  ;  but  he  said, — 

"  Ay,  ay,  Abel,  my  lad." 

"  What  be  His  frock  all  red  for,  then  ?  Bright  red,  like 
blood.     'Tis  like  them  figures  in — in  " — 

Here  Abel  wandered  again,  and  only  muttered  to  himself. 
But  when  Jan  crept  near  to  him,  and  touching  him  said, 
"  The  figures  in  the  window,  Abel  dear,"  he  opened  his  eyes 
and  said, — 

"  So  it  be,  Janny.  With  the  sun  shining  through  'em. 
Thee  knows." 

And  then  he  wailed  fretfully, — 

"  Why  do  He  keep  His  back  to  me  all  along  ?  I  follows 
Him  up  and  down,  all  over,  till  I  be  tired.  Why  don't  He 
turn  His  face  ?  " 

Jan  was  speechless  from  tears,  but  the  old  schoolmaster 
took  Abel's  hot  hand  in  his,  and  said,  with  infinite  tender- 
ness,— 

"  He  will,  my  lad.  He'll  turn  His  face  to  thee  very  soon. 
Wait  for  Him,  Abel." 

"  Do 'ee  think  so?"  said  Abel.  And  after  a  while  he 
muttered,  "You  be  the  schoolmaster,  and  ought  to  know." 

And,  seemingly  satisfied,  he  dozed  once  more. 

Master  Swift  hurried  aw  ay.  He  had  business  in  the  vil- 
lage, and  he  wanted  to  catch  the  doctor,  and  ask  his  opinion 
of  Abel's  case. 

"Will  he  get  round,  sir?"  he  asked. 

The  doctor  shook  his  head,  and  Master  Swift  felt  a  double 
pang.  He  was  sorry  about  Abel,  but  the  real  object  of  his 
anxiety  was  Jan.  Once  he  had  hoped  the  danger  was  past, 
but  the  pestilence  seemed  still  in  full  strength  at  the  wind- 
mill, and  the  agonizing  conviction  strengthened  in  his  mind 
that  once  more  his  hopes  were  to  be  disappointed,  and  the 


H8  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

desire  of  his  eyes  was  to  be  snatched  away.  The  doctor 
thought  that  he  was  grieving  for  Abel,  and  said, — 

"I'm  just  as  sorry  as  yourself.  He's  a  fine  lad,  with 
something  angelic  about  the  face,  when  ye  separate  it  from 
its  surroundings.  But  they've  no  constitution  in  that  family. 
It's  just  the  want  of  strength  in  him,  and  not  the  strength 
of  the  fever,  this  time ;  for  the  virulence  of  the  poison's 
abating.  The  cases  are  recovering  now,  except  where  other 
causes  intervene." 

Master  Swift  felt  almost  ashamed  of  the  bound  in  his 
spirits.  But  the  very  words  which  shut  out  all  hope  of 
Abel's  recovery  opened  a  possible  door  of  escape  for  Jan. 
He  was  not  one  of  the  family,  and  it  was  reasonable  to  hope 
that  his  constitution  might  be  of  sterner  stuff.  He  turned 
with  a  lighter  heart  into  his  cottage,  where  he  purposed  to 
get  some  food  and  then  return  to  the  mill.  There  might  be 
a  lucid  interval  before  the  end,  in  which  the  pious  Abel 
might  find  comfort  from  his  lips ;  and  if  Jan  sickened,  he 
would  nurse  him  night  and  day. 

Rufus  welcomed  his  master  not  merely  with  cordiality, 
but  with  fussiness.  The  partly  apologetic  character  of  his 
greeting  was  accounted  for  when  a  half  starved  looking  dog 
emerged  from  beneath  the  table,  and,  not  being  immediately 
kicked,  wagged  the  point  of  its  tail  feebly,  keeping  at  a 
respectful  distance,  whilst  Rufus  introduced  it. 

"  So  ye're  for  playing  the  philanthropist,  are  ye  ?  "  said 
Master  Swift.  "  Ye've  picked  up  one  of  these  poor  house- 
less, masterless  creatures  ?  I'm  not  for  undervaluing  disin- 
terested charity,  Rufus,  my  man ;  but  I  wish  ye'd  had  the 
luck  to  light  on  a  better  bred  beast  while  ye  were  about  it." 

It  is,  perhaps,  no  disadvantage  to  what  we  call  "  dumb 
animals"  if  they  understand  the  general  drift  of  our  re- 
marks without  minutely  following  every  word.  They  have 
generally  the  sense,  too,  to  leave  well  alone,  and,  without 
pressing  the  question  of  the  new  comer's  adoption,  the  two 
dogs  curled  themselves  round,  put  their  noses  into  their 
pockets,  and  went  to  sleep  with  an  air  of  its  being  unneces- 
sary to  pursue  the  topic  farther. 

Master  Swift  shared  his  meal  with  them,  and  left  them  to 
keep  house  when  he  returned  to  the  mill. 

His  quick  eye,  doubly  quickened  by  experience  and  by 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  149 

anxiety,  saw  that  Jan's  were  full  of  fever,  and  his  limbs 
languid.  But  he  would  not  quit  Abel's  side,  and  Master 
Swift  remained  with  the  afflicted  family. 

Abel  muttered  deliriously  all  night,  with  short  intervals  of 
complete  stupor.  The  fever,  like  a  fire,  consumed  his 
strength,  and  the  fancy  that  he  was  toiling  over  the  downs 
seemed  to  weary  him  as  if  he  had  really  been  on  foot.  Just 
before  sunrise,  Master  Swift  left  him  asleep,  and  went  to 
breathe  some  out-door  air. 

The  fresh,  tender  light  of  early  morning  was  over  every 
thing.  The  windmill  stood  up  against  the  red-barred  sky 
with  outlines  softened  by  the  clinging  dew.  The  plains 
glistened,  and  across  them,  through  the  pure  air,  came  the 
voice  of  Master  Salter's  chanticleer  from  the  distant  farm. 

It  was  such  a  contrast  to  the  scene  within  that  Master 
Swift  burst  into  tears.  But  even  as  he  wept  the  sun  leaped 
to  the  horizon,  and,  reflected  from  every  dewdrop,  and  from 
the  very  tears  upon  the  old  man's  cheeks,  flooded  the  world 
about  him  with  its  inimitable  glory. 

The  schoolmaster  uncovered  his  head,  and  kneeling  upon 
the  short  grass  prayed  passionately  for  the  dying  boy.  But, 
as  he  knelt  in  the  increasing  sunshine,  his  prayers  for  the 
peace  of  the  departing  soul  unconsciously  passed  almost  into 
thanksgiving  that  so  soon,  and  so  little  stained,  it  should 
exchange  the  dingy  sick-room — not  for  these  sweet  summer 
days,  which  lose  their  sweetness  ! — but  to  taste,  in  peace 
which  passeth  understanding,  what  God  has  prepared  for 
them  that  love  Him. 

It  was  whilst  the  schoolmaster  still  knelt  outside  the  wind- 
mill that  Abel  awoke,  and  raised  his  eyes  to  Jan's  with  a  smile. 

"  Thee  must  go  out  a  bit  soon,  Janny  dear,"  he  whispered, 
"  it  be  sech  a  lovely  day." 

Jan  was  too  much  pleased  to  hear  him  speak  to  wonder 
how  he  knew  what  kind  of  a  day  it  was,  and  Abel  lay  with 
his  head  in  Jan's  arms,  breathing  painfully  and  gazing  before 
him.  Suddenly  he  raised  himself,  and  cried, — so  loudly  that 
the  old  man  outside  heard  the  cry, — 

"  Janny  dear !  He've  turned  his  face  to  me.  He  be 
coming  right  to  me.     Oh!  He" — 

But  He  had  come. 


150  JAN  (DP  THE  WINDMILL. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

JAN       HAS       THE       FEVER CONVALESCENCE       IN       MASTER 

SWIFT'S  COTTAGE THE  SQUIRE  ON  DEMORALIZATION. 

Jan  took  the  fever.  He  was  very  ill,  too,  partly  from 
grief  at  Abel's  death.  He  had  also  a  not  unnatural  con- 
viction that  he  would  die,  which  was  unfavorable  to  his 
recovery. 

The  day  on  which  he  gave  Master  Swift  his  old  etching  as 
a  last  bequest,  he  fairly  infected  him  also  with  this  belief, 
and  during  a  necessary  visit  to  the  village  the  schoolmaster 
hung  up  the  little  picture  in  his  cottage  with  a  breaking 
heart. 

But  the  next  time  Rufus  saw  him,  he  came  to  prepare  for 
a  visitor.  Jan  was  recovering,  and  Master  Swift  had  per- 
suaded the  windmiller  to  let  him  come  to  the  cottage  for  a 
few  days,  the  rather  that  Mrs.  Lake  was  going  to  stay  with 
a  relative  whilst  the  windmill  was  thoroughly  cleansed  and 
disinfected.  The  weather  was  delightful  now,  and,  feeble 
as  he  had  become,  Jan  soon  grew  strong  again.  If  he  had 
not  done  so,  it  would  have  been  from  no  lack  of  care  on 
Master  Swift's  part.  The  old  schoolmaster  was  a  thrifty  man, 
and  had  some  money  laid  by,  or  he  would  have  been  some- 
what pinched  at  this  time.  As  it  was,  he  drew  freely  upon 
his  savings  for  Jan's  benefit,  and  made  many  expeditions  to 
the  town  to  buy  such  delicacies  as  he  thought  might  tempt 
his  appetite.  Nor  was  this  all.  The  morning  when  Jan 
came  languidly  into  the  kitchen  from  the  little  inner  room, 
where  he  and  the  schoolmaster  slept,  he  saw  his  precious 
paint-box  on  the  table,  to  fetch  which  Master  Swift  had  been 
to  the  windmill.  And  by  it  lay  a  square  book  with  the 
word  Sketch-booh  in  ornamental  characters  on  the  binding,  a 
couple  of  Cumberland  lead  drawing  pencils,  and  a  three- 
penny chunk  of  bottle  India-rubber,  delicious  to  smell. 

If  the  schoolmaster  had  had  any  twinges  of  regret  as  he 
bought  these  things,  in  defiance  of  his  principles  for  Jan's 
education,  they  melted  utterly  away  in  view  of  his  delight, 
and  the  glow  that  pleasure  brought  into  his  pale  cheeks. 
Master    Swift  was   regarded,   too,   by  a  colored  sketch  of 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  151 

Rufus  sitting  at  table  in  his  arm-chair,  with  his  more  mon- 
grel friend  on  the  floor  beside  him.  It  was  the  best  sketch 
that  Jan  had  yet  accomplished.  But  most  people  are  famil- 
iar with  the  curious  fact  that  one  often  makes  an  unaccount- 
able stride  in  an  art  after  it  has  been  laid  aside  for  a  time. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  Master  Swift  had  neglected 
his  duties  in  the  village,  or  left  the  Parson,  the  Squire,  and 
the  doctor  to  struggle  on  alone,  during  the  illness  of  Abel 
and  of  Jan.  Even  now  he  was  away  from  the  cottage  for 
the  greater  part  of  the  day,  and  Jan  was  left  to  keep  house 
with  the  dogs.  His  presence  gave  great  contentment  to 
Rufus,  if  it  scarcely  lessened  the  melancholy  dignity  of  his 
countenance;  for  dogs  who  live  with  human  beings  never 
like  being  left  long  alone.  And  Jan,  for  his  own  part,  could 
have  wished  for  nothing  better  than  to  sit  at  the  table  where 
he  had  once  hoped  to  make  leaf-pictures,  and  paint  away  with 
materials  that  Rembrandt  himself  would  not  have  dis- 
dained. 

The  pestilence  had  passed  away.  But  the  labors  of  the 
Rector  and  his  staff  rather  increased  than  diminished  at  this 
particular  point.  To  say  nothing  of  those  vile  wretches  wTho 
seem  to  spring  out  of  such  calamities  as  putrid  matter  breeds 
vermin,  and  who  use  them  as  opportunities  for  plunder,  there 
were  a  good  many  people  to  be  dealt  with  of  a  lighter  shade 
of  demoralization, — people  who  had  really  suffered,  and 
whose  daily  work  had  been  unavoidably  stopped,  but  to  whom 
idleness  was  so  pleasant,  and  the  fame  of  their  misfortunes  so 
gratifying,  that  they  preferred  to  scramble  on  in  dismantled 
homes,  on  the  alms  extracted  by  their  woes,  to  setting  about 
such  labor  as  would  place  them  in  comfort.  Then  that  large 
class — the  shiftless — was  now  doubly  large,  and  there  were 
widows  and  orphans  in  abundance,  and  there  was  hardly  a 
bed  or  a  blanket  in  the  place. 

"  I  have  come,"  said  Mr.  Ammaby,  joining  the  Rector  as 
he  sat  at  breakfast,  "  to  beg  you,  in  the.  interests  of  the  village, 
to  check  the  flow  of  that  fount  of  benevolence  which  springs 
eternal  in  the  clerical  pocket.  You  will  ruin  us  with  your 
shillings  and  half  crowns." 

"  Bless  my  soul,  Ammaby,"  said  the  Rector,  pausing  with 
an  eggshell  transfixed  upon  his  spoon,  "  shillings  and  half 
crowns   don't  go  far  in  the  present  condition  of  our  house- 


152  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

holds.  There  are  not  ten  families  whose  beds  are  not  burnt. 
What  do  you  propose  to  do  ?  " 

"  I'll  tell  you,  when  I  have  first  confessed  that  my  ideas 
are  not  entirely  original.  I  have  been  studying  political 
economy  under  that  hard-headed  Sandy,  our  friend  the  doc- 
tor. In  the  first  place,  from  to-morrow,  we  must  cease  to 
give  anything  whatever,  and  both  announce  that  determina- 
tion and  stick  to  it." 

"  And  then,  my  dear  sir?  "  said  the  Rector,  smiling,  and 
nursing  his  black  gaiter. 

"  And  then,  my  .dear  sir?"  said  Mr.  Ammaby,  "  I  shall 
be  able  to  get  some  men  to  do  some  work  about  my  place, 
and  those  people  at  a  distance  who  have  widows  here  will  re- 
lieve them  (at  least  the  widows  will  look  up  their  well-to-do 
relatives),  and  the  Church,  in  your  person,  will  not  be 
charged.  And  some  of  the  widows  will  consent  to  scrub  for 
payment,  instead  of  sitting  weeping  in  your  kitchen — 
also  for  payment.  They  will,  furthermore,  compel  their  in- 
teresting sons  to  mind  pigs,  or  scare  birds,  instead  of  hang- 
ing about  the  Heart  of  Oak,  begging  of  the  visitors  who  now 
begin  to  invade  us.  Do  you  know  that  the  very  boys  won't 
settle  to  work,  that  the  children  are  taking  to  gutter-life  and 
begging,  that  the  women  won't  even  tidy  up  their  houses,  and 
that  the  men  are  retailing  the  horrors  of  the  fever  in  every 
alehouse  in  the  county,  instead  of  getting  in  the  crops  ?  I 
give  you  my  word,  I  had  to  go  down  to  the  inn  yesterday, 
and  a  lad  of  eleven  or  twelve,  who  didn't  recognize  me  in 
Chuter's  dark  kitchen,  came  up  and  began  to  beg  with  a 
whine  that  would  have  done  credit  to  a  professional  mendi- 
cant. I  stood  in  the  shadow  and  let  him  tell  his  whole  story, 
of  a  widowed  mother  and  three  brothers  and  sisters  living, 
and  six  dead ;  and  when  he'd  finished,  and  two  visitors  were 
fumbling  in  their  pockets,  I  took  him  by  the  collar  and  lifted 
him  clean  through  the  kitchen  and  down  the  yard  into  the 
street.  I  nearly  knocked  Swift  over,  or  rather  I  nearly  fell 
myself,  from  concussion  with  his  burly  person,  but  he  was 
the  very  man  I  wanted.  I  said,  '  Mr.  Swift,  may  I  ask  you 
to  do  me  a  favor  ?  This  boy — whose  father  was  a  respectable 
man — has  been  begging — begging!  in  a  public  room.  His 
excuse  is  that  his  mother  is  starving.  AVill  you  kindly  take 
him  to   the  Hall,  and  put  him  in  charge  of  the  gardener, 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  153 

with  my  strict  orders  that  he  is  to  do  a  good  afternoon's 
work  at  weeding  in  the  shrubbery.  And  that  the  gardener 
is  to  see  that  lie  comes  every  day  at  nine  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  and  works  there  till  four  in  the  afternoon,  till  the 
day  you  reopen  school,  meal-times  and  Sundays  excepted.  I 
will  pay  his  mother  five  shillings  a  week,  and,  if  he  is  a  good 
boy,  I'll  give  him  some  old  clothes.  And  if  ever  you  see  or 
hear  of  his  disgracing  himself  and  his  friends  by  begging 
again,  if  you  don't  thrash  him  within  an  inch  of  his  life,  I 
shall.'  I  promise  you,  the  widow  might  starve  for  the  want 
of  that  five  shillings  if  the  young  gentleman  could  slip  out  of 
his  bargain.  His  face  was  a  study.  But  less  so  than  the 
schoolmaster's.  The  job  exactly  suited  him,  and  I  suspect 
he  knew  the  lad  of  old." 

''From  what  I've  heard  Swift  say,  I  fancy  he  sympathizes 
with  your  theories,"  said  the  Rector. 

"  I  fear  he  sympathizes  with  my  temper  as  well  as  my  the- 
ories !  "  laughed  the  Squire.  "As  I  felt  the  flush  on  my 
own  cheek-bone,  I  caught  the  fire  in  his  eye.  But  how,  my 
dear  sir,  you  will  consent  to  some  stixmg  measures  to  prevent 
the  village  becoming  a  mere  nest  of  lazzaroni  f  Let  us  try 
the  system  at  any  rate.  I  propose  that  we  do  not  shut  up 
the  soup  kitchen  yet,  but  charge  a  small  sum  for  the  soup 
towards  its  expenses.  And  I  want  to  beg  you  to  write  an- 
other of  those  graphic  and  persuasive  letters,  in  which  you 
have  appealed  to  the  sympathy  of  the  public  with  our  mis- 
fortune." 

"  But,  bless  me  !  "  said  the  Rector,  "  I  thought  you  were 
a  foe  to  assisting  the  people,  even  out  of  their  own  parson's 
pocket." 

"  Well,  I  taunted  the  doctor  myself  with  inconsistency, 
but  we  do  not  propose  to  make  a  sixpenny  dole  of  the  fund. 
You  know  there  are  certain  things  they  can't  do,  and  some 
help  they  seem  fairly  entitled  to  receive.  We've  made  them 
burn  their  bedding,  in  the  interests  of  the  public  safety,  and 
it's  only  fair  they  should  be  helped  to  replace  it.  Then  there 
is  a  lot  of  sanitary  work  which  can  only  be  done  by  a  fund 
for  the  purpose  ;  and,  if  we  get  the  money,  we  can  employ 
idlers.  The  women  will  tidy  their  houses  when  they  see 
new  blankets,  and  the  sooner  the  churchyard  is  made  nice, 


154  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

and  that  monument  of  yours  ereeted,  and  w©  all  get  into  or- 
derly, respectable  ways  again,  tlie  better." 

"  Enough,  enough,  my  dear  Ammaby  !  "  cried  the  Rector; 
"  I  put  myself  in  your  hands,  and  I  will  see  to  the  public 
appeal  at  once ;  though  I  may  mention  that  the  credit  of 
those  compositions  chiefly  belongs  to  old  Swift.  He  knows 
the  data  minutely,  and  he  delights  in  the  putting  together. 
I  think  he  regards  it  as  a  species  of  literary  work.  I  hope 
you  hear  good  news  of  Lady  Louisa  and  little  Amabel  ?  " 

"  They  are  quite  well,  thank  you,"  said  the  Squire  ;  "they 
are  in  town  just  now  with  Lady  Craikshaw,  who  has  gone  up 
to  consult  her  London  doctor." 

"  Well,  farewell,  Ammaby,  for  the  present.  Tell  the  doc- 
tor I'll  give  his  plan  a  trial,  and  we'll  get  the  place  into 
working  order  as  fast  as  we  can." 

"  He  will  be  charmed,"  said  the  Squire.  "  He  says,  as 
we  are  going  on  now,  we  are  breeding  two  worse  pests  than 
than  the  fever, — contentment  under  remediable  discomfort, 
and  a  dislike  to  work," 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

MR.    FORD'S    CLIENT THE    HISTORY    OF   JAN'S  FATHER. 

AMABEL    AND  BOGY  THE  SECOND. 

Among  the  many  sounds  blended  into  that  one  which 
roared  for  ever  round  Mr.  Ford's  offices  in  the  city  was  the 
cry  of  the  newsboys. 

"  Horf ul   p'ticklers    of  the    plague   in   a   village  in 

shire  ! "  they  screamed  under  the  windows.  Not  that  Mr. 
Ford  heard  them.  But  in  five  minutes  the  noiseless  door 
opened,  and  a  clerk  laid  the  morning  paper  on  the  table,  and 
withdrew  in  silence.  Mr.  Ford  cut  it  leisurely  with  a  large 
ivory  knife,  and  skimmed  the  news.  His  eye  happened  to 
fall  upon  the  Rector's  letter,  which,  after  a  short  summary 
of  the  history  of  the  fever,  pointed  out  the  objects  for  which 
help  was  immediately  required.  There  was  a  postscript. 
To  give  some  idea  of  the  ravages  of  the  epidemic,  and  as  a 
proof  that  the   calamity  was  not  exaggerated,  a  list  of  gom.0 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  155 

of  the  worst  cases  was  given,  with  names  and  particulars. 
It  was  gloomy  enough.  "  Mary  Smith,  lost  her  husband  (a 
laborer)  and  six  children  between  the  second  and  the  ninth 
of  the  month.  George  Harness,  a  blacksmith,  lost  his  wife 
and  four  children.  Master  Abel  Lake,  windmill er  of  the 
Tower  Mill,  lost  all  his  children,  five  in  number,  between 
the  fifth  and  the  fifteenth  of  the  month.  His  wife's  health 
is  completely  broken  up  " — 

At  this  point,  Mr.  Ford  dropped  the  paper,  and,  unlocking 
a  drawer  beside  him,  referred  to  some  memoranda,  after 
which  he  cut  out  the  Rector's  letter  with  a  large  pair  of 
office  scissors,  and  enclosed  it  in  one  which  he  wrote  before 
proceeding  to  any  other  business.  He  had  underlined  one 
name  in  the  doleful  list, — Abel  Lake,  windmiller. 

Some  hours  later  the  silent  clerk  ushered  in  a  visitor,  one 
of  Mr.  Ford's  clients.  He  was  a  gentleman  of  middle 
height  and  middle  age, — the  younger  half  of  middle  age, 
though  his  dark  hair  was  prematurely  gray.  His  eyes  were 
black  and  restless,  and  his  manner  at  once  haughty  and 
nervous. 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  my  dear  sir,"  said  Mr.  Ford, 
suavely  ;  "  I  have  just  written  you  a  note,  the  subject  of 
which  I  can  now  speak  about."  And,  as  he  spoke,  Mr. 
Ford  tore  open  the  letter  which  lay  beside  him,  whilst  his 
client  was  saying,  "  We  are  only  passing  through  town  on 
our  way  to  Scotland.     I  shall  be  here  two  nights." 

"  You  remember  instructing  me  that  it  was  your  wish  to 
economize  as  much  as  possible  during  the  minority  of  your 
son  ?  "  said  Mr.  Ford.     His  client  nodded. 

"I  think,"  continued  the  man  of  business,  "there  is  a 
quarterly  payment  we  have  been  in  the  habit  of  making  on 
your  account,  which  is  now  at  an  end."  And,  as  he  spoke, 
he  pushed  the  Rector's  letter  across  the  table,  with  his 
fingers  upon  the  name  Abel  Lake,  windmiller.  His  client 
always  spoke  stiffly,  which  made  the  effort  with  which  he 
now  spoke  less  noticed  by  the  lawyer.  "  I  should  like  to 
he  certain,"  he  said.  "  I  mean,  that  there  is  no  exaggera- 
tion or  mistake." 

4<  You  have  never  communicated  with  the  man,  or  given 
him  any  chance  of  pestering  you,"  said  Mr.  Ford.  "  I 
should  hardly  do  so  now,  I  think." 


156  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

"  I  certainly  kept  the  power  of  reopening  communication 
in  my  own  hands,  knowing  nothing  of  the  man;  but  I 
should  be  sorry  to  discontinue  the  allowance  under  a — a 
mistake  of  any  kind." 

Mr.  Ford  meditated.  It  may  be  said  here  that  he  by  no 
means  knew  all  that  the  reader  knows  of  Jan's  history ; 
but  he  saw  that  his  client  was  anxious  not  to  withhold  the 
money  if  the  child  were  alive. 

"  1  think  I  have  it,  my  dear  sir,"  he  said  suddenly. 
"  Allow  me  to  write,  in  my  own  name,  to  this  worthy  clergy- 
man. I  must  ask  you  to  subscribe  to  his  fund,  in  my  name, 
which  will  form  an  excuse  for  the  letter,  and  I  will  con- 
trive to  ask  him  if  the  list  of  cases  has  been  printed  accu- 
rately, and  has  his  sanction.  If  there  has  been  any  error, 
we  shall  hear  of  it.  The  object  of  the  subscription  is — let 
me  see — is — a  monument  to  those  who  have  died  of  the 
fever  and" — 

But  the  dark  gentleman  had  started  up  abruptly. 

"  Thank  you,  thank  you,  Mr.  Ford,"  he  said;  "your  plan 
is,  as  usual,  excellent.  Pray  oblige  me  by  sending  ten 
guineas  in  your  own  name,  and  you  will  let  me  know  if — if 
there  is  any  mistake.  I  will  call  in  to-morrow  about  other 
matters." 

And  before  Mr.  Ford  could  reply  his  client  was  gone. 

The  peculiar  solitude  to  be  found  in  the  crowded  heart  of 
London  was  grateful  to  his  present  mood.  To  have  been 
alone  with  his  thoughts  in  the  country  would  have  been  in- 
tolerable. The  fields  smack  of  innocence,  and  alone  with 
them  the  past  is  apt  to  take  the  simple  tints  of  right  and 
wrong  in  the  memory.  But  in  that  seething  mass,  which 
represents  ten  thousand  heartaches  and  anxieties,  doubtful 
shifts,  and  open  sins,  as  bad  or  worse  than  a  man's  own, 
there  is  a  silent  sympathy  and  no  reproach.  Mr.  Ford's 
client  did  not  lean  back,  the  tension  of  his  mind  was  too 
great.  He  sat  stiffly,  and  gazed  vacantly  before  him,  half 
seeing  and  half  transforming  into  other  visions  whatever  lay 
before  the  hansom,  as  it  wound  its  way  through  the  streets. 
Now  for  a  moment  a  four-wheeled  cab,  loaded  with  school- 
boy luggage,  occupied  the  field  of  view,  and  idle  memories  of 
his  own  boyhood  flitted  over  it.  Then,  crawling  behind  a 
dray,  some  strange  associations  built  up  the  barrels  into  aa 


Jan  of  the  windmill.  t$f 

eld  weather-stained  wooden  house  in  Holland,  and  for  a 
while  an  intense  realization  of  past  scenes  which  love  had 
made  happy  put  present  anxieties  to  sleep.  But  they  woke 
again  with  a  horrible  pang,  as  a  grim,  hideous  funeral  car 
drove  slowly  past,  nodding  like  a  nightmare. 

As  the  traffic  became  less  dense,  and  the  cab  went  faster, 
the  man's  thoughts  went  faster  too.  He  strove  to  do  what 
he  had  not  often  tried,  to  review  his  life.  He  had  uncon- 
sciously gained  the  will  to  do  it,  because  a  reparation  which 
conscience  might  hitherto  have  pressed  on  him  was  now  im- 
possible, and  because  the  plague  that  had  desolated  Abel 
Lake's  home  had  swept  the  skeleton  out  of  his  own  cup- 
board, and  he  could  repent  of  the  past  and  do  his  duty  in 
the  future.  His  conscience  was  stronger  than  his  courage. 
He  had  long  wished  to  repent,  though  he  had  not  found 
strength  to  repair. 

On  one  point  he  did  not  delude  himself  as  he  looked  back 
over  his  life.  He  had  no  sentimental  regrets  for  the  .careless 
happiness  of  youth.  Is  any  period  of  human  life  so  tor- 
mented with  cares  as  a  self-indulgent  youth  ?  He  had  been 
a  slave  to  expensive  habits,  to  social  traditions,  to  past 
follies,  ever  since  he  could  remember.  He  had  been  in 
debt,  in  pocket  or  in  conscience,  from  his  school-boy  days 
to  this  hour.  His  tradesmen  were  paid  long  since,  and,  if 
death  had  cancelled  what  else  he  owed,  how  easy  virtue 
would  henceforth  be ! 

It  had  not  been  easy  at  the  date  of  his  first  marriage.  He 
was  deeply  in  debt,  and  out  of  favor  with  his  father.  It  was 
on  both  accounts  that  he  went  abroad  for  some  months.  In 
Holland  he  married.  His  wife  was  Jan's  mother,  and  Jan 
was  their  only  child. 

Her  people  were  of  middle  rank,  leading  quiet  though  cul- 
tivated lives.  Her  mother  was  dead,  and  she  was  her  old 
father's  only  child.  It  would  be  doing  injustice  to  the  kind 
of  love  with  which  she  inspired  her  husband  to  dwell  much 
upon  her  beauty,  though  it  was  of  that  high  type  which  takes 
possession  of  the  memory  for  ever.  She  was  very  intensely, 
brilliantly  fair,  so  that  in  a  crowd  her  face  shone  out  like  a 
star.  Time  never  dimmed  one  golden  thread  in  her  hair ; 
and  Death,  who  had  done  so  much  for  Mr.  Ford's  client, 
could  not  wash  that  face  from  his  brain.     It  blotted  the 


*5&  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

traffic  out  of  the  streets,  and  in  their  place  Dutch  pasture^ 
whose  rich  green  levels  were  unbroken  by  hedge  or  wall, 
stretched  flatly  to  the  horizon.  It  bent  over  a  drawing  on 
his  knee  as  he  and  she  sat  sketching  together  in  an  old-world 
orchard,  where  the  trees  bore  more  moss  than  fruit.  The 
din  of  London  was  absolutely  unheard  by  Mr.  Ford's  client, 
but  he  heard  her  voice,  saying,  "  You  must  learn  to  paint 
cattle,  if  you  mean  to  make  any  thing  of  Dutch  scenery. 
And  also,  where  the  garth  gives  so  little  variety,  one  must 
study  the  sky.  We  have  no  mountains,  but  we  have  clouds." 
It  was  in  the  orchard,  under  the  apple-tree,  across  the 
sketch-book,  that  they  had  plighted  their  troth — ten  years 
ago. 

They  were  married.  Had  he  ever  denied  himself  a  single 
gratification,  because  it  would  add  another  knot  to  the  tangle 
of  his  career  ?  He  had  pacified  creditors  by  incurring  fresh 
debts,  and  had  evaded  catastrophes  by  involving  himself  in 
new  complications  all  his  life.  His  marriage  was  accomplished 
at  the  expense  of  a  train  of  falsehoods,  but  his  father-in-law 
was  an  unworldly  old  man,  not  difficult  to  deceive.  He  spent 
most  of  the  next  ten  months  in  Holland,  and,  apart  from  his 
anxieties,  it  wras  the  purest,  happiest  time  he  had  ever 
known.  Then  his  father  recalled  him  peremptordy  to 
England. 

When  Mr.  Ford's  client  obeyed  his  father's  summons,  the 
climax  of  his  difficulties  seemed  at  hand.  The  old  man  was 
anxious  for  a  reconciliation,  but  resolved  that  his  son  should 
"settle  in  life;"  and  he  had  found  a  wife  for  him,  the 
daughter  of  a  Scotch  nobleman,  young,  handsome,  and  with 
a  good  fortune.  He  gave  him  a  fortnight  for  consideration. 
If  he  complied,  the  old  man  promised  to  pay  his  debts,  to 
make  him  a  liberal  allowance,  and  to  be  in  every  way  in- 
dulgent. If  he  thwarted  his  plans,  he  threatened  to  allow 
him  nothing  during  his  lifetime,  and  to  leave  him  nothing 
that  he  could  avoid  bequeathing  at  his  death. 

It  was  at  this  juncture  that  Jan's  mother  followed  her  hus- 
band to  England.  Her  anxieties  were  not  silenced  by  excuses 
which  satisfied  her  father.  The  crisis  could  hardly  have  been 
worse.  Mr.  Ford's  client  felt  that  confession  was  now  in- 
evitable ;  and  that  he  could  confess  more  easily  by  letter 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  159 

when  he  reached  London.     But  before  the  letter  was  written, 
his  wife  died. 

Weak  men,  harassed  by  personal  anxieties,  become  hard 
in  proportion  to  their  selfish  fears.  It  is  like  the  cruelty  that 
comes  of  terror.  He  had  loved  his  wife  ;  but  lie  was  terribly 
pressed,  and  there  came  a  sense  of  relief  even  with  the  bit- 
terness of  the  knowledge  that  he  was  free.  He  took  the 
body  to  Holland,  to  be  buried  under  the  shadow  of  the  little 
wooden  church  where  they  were  married  ;  and  to  the  desolate 
old  father  he  promised  to  bring  his  grandson — Jan.  But  just 
after  the  death  of  the  old  nurse,  in  whose  care  he  had  placed 
his  child,  another  crisis  came  to  Mr.  Ford's  client.  On  the 
same  day  lie  got  letters  from  his  father  and  from  his  father- 
in-law.  Froni  the  first,  to  press  his  instant  return  home ; 
from  the  second,  to  say  that,  if  he  could  not  at  once  bring 
Jan,  the  old  man  would  make  the  effort  of  a  voyage  to 
England  to  fetch  him.  Jan's  father  almost  hated  him.  That 
the  child  should  have  lived  when  the  beloved  mother  died 
was  in  itself  an  offence.  But  that  that  freedom,  and  peace, 
and  prosperity,  which  were  so  dearly  purchased  by  her  death, 
should  be  risked  afresh  by  him,  was  irritating  to  a  degree. 
He  was  frantic.  It  was  impossible  to  fail  that  very  peremp- 
tory old  gentleman,  his  father.  It  was  out  of  the  question 
to  allow  iiis  father-in-law  to  come  to  England.  He  could  not 
throw  away  all  his  prospects.  And  the  more  he  thought  of 
it,  the  more  certain  it  seemed  that  Jan's  existence  would  for 
ever  tie  him  to  Holland  ;  that  for  his  grandson's  sake  the  old 
man  would  investigate  his  affairs,  and  that  the  truth  would 
come  out  sooner  or  later.  The  very  devil  suggested  to  him 
that  if  the  child  had  died  with  its  mother  he  wrould  have  been 
cmite  free,  and  intercourse  with  Holland  would  have  died 
away  naturally.  He  wished  to  forget.  To  a  nature  of  his 
type,  when  even  such  a  love  as  he  had  been  privileged  to  en- 
joy had  become  a  memory  involving  pain,  it  was  instinc- 
tively evaded  like  any  other  unpleasant  thing.  He  resolved, 
at  last,  to  let  nothing  stand  between  him  and  reconciliation 
with  his  father.  Once  more  he  must  desperately  mortgage 
the  future  for  present  emergencies.  He  wrote  to  the  old 
father-in-law  to  say  that  the  child  was  dead.  He  excused  this 
to  himself  on  the"  ground  of  Jan's  welfare.  If  the  truth  be- 
came fully  known,  and  his  father  threw  him  off,  he  would  be 


l6o  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

a  poor  embarrassed  man,  and  could  do  little  for  his  child. 
But  with  his  father's  fortune,  and,  perhaps,  the  Scotch  lady's 
fortune,  it  would  be  in  his  power  to  give  Jan  a  brilliant 
future,  even  if  he  never  fully  acknowledged  him.  As  yet  he 
hardly  recognized  such  an  unnatural  possibility.  He  said  to 
himself,  that  when  he  was  free,  all  would  be  well,  and  the 
Dutch  grandfather  would  forgive  the  lie  in  the  joy  of  dis- 
covering that  Jan  was  alive,  and  would  be  so  well  provided 
for. 

Mr.  Ford's  client  was  reconciled  to  his  father.  He  mar- 
ried Lady  Adelaide,  and  announced  the  marriage  to  his 
father-in-law.  After  which,  his  intercourse  with  Holland 
died  out. 

It  was  a  curious  result  of  a  marriage  so  made  that  it  was  a 
very  happy  one.  Still  more  curious  was  the  likeness,  both 
physical  and  mental,  between  the  second  wife  and  the  first. 
Lady  Adelaide  was  half  Scotch  and  half  English,  a  blonde  of 
the  most  brilliant  type,  and  of  an  intellectual  order  of  beauty. 
But  fair  women  are  common  enough.  It  was  stranger  still 
that  the  best  affections  of  two  women  of  so  high  a  moral  and 
intellectual  standard  should  have  been  devoted  to  the  same 
and  to  such  a  husband.  Not  quite  in  vain.  Indeed,  but  for 
that  grievous  sin  towards  his  eldest  son,  Mr.  Ford's  client 
would  probably  have  become  an  utterly  different  man.  But 
there  is  no  rising  far  in  the  moral  atmosphere  with  a  wilful, 
unrepented  sin  as  a  clog.  It  was  a  miserable  result  of  the 
weakness  of  his  character  that  he  could  not  see  that  the  very 
nobleness  of  Lady  Adelaide's  should  have  encouraged  him  to 
confess  to  her  what  he  dared  not  trust  to  his  father's  im- 
perious, petulant  affection.  But  he  was  afraid  of  her.  It 
had  been  the  same  with  his  first  wife.  He  had  dreaded  that 
she  should  discover  his  falsehoods  far  more  than  he  had 
feared  his  father-in-law.  And  years  of  happy  companionship 
made  it  even  less  tolerable  to  him  to  think  of  lowering  him- 
self in  Lady  Adelaide's  regard. 

But  there  was  a  far  more  overwhelming  consideration  which 
had  been  gathering  strength  for  eight  years  between  him  and 
the  idea  of  recognizing  Jan  as  his  eldest  son,  and  his  heir. 
He  had  another  son,  Lady  Adelaide's  only  child.  If  he  had 
hesitated  when  the  boy  was  only  a  baby  to  tell  her  that  her 
darling  was  not  his  only  son,  it  was  less  and  less  easy  +o  him. 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  161 

to  think  of  bringing  Jan — of  whom  he  knew  nothing — from 
the  rough  life  of  the  mill  to  supplant  Lady  Adelaide's  child, 
when  the  boy  grew  more  charming  as  every  year  went  by. 
Clever,  sweet-tempered,  of  aristocratic  appearance,  idolized 
by  the  relatives  of  both  his  parents,  he  seemed  made  by 
Providence  to  do  credit  to  the  position  to  which  he  was  be- 
lieved to  have  been  born. 

Mr.  Ford's  client  had  almost  made  the  resolve  against 
which  that  fair  face  that  was  not  Lady  Adelaide's  for  ever 
rose  up  in  judgment :  he  was  just  deciding  to  put  Jan  to 
school,  and  to  give  up  all  idea  of  taking  him  home,  when 
death  seemed  once  more  to  have  solved  his  difficulties.  An 
unwonted  ease  came  into  his  heart.  Surely  Heaven,  know- 
ing how  sincerely  he  wished  to  be  good,  was  making  good- 
ness easy  to  him, — was  permitting  him  to  settle  with  his 
conscience  on  cheaper  terms  than  those  of  repentance  and 
restitution.  (And  indeed,  if  amendment,  of  the  weak  as  well 
as  of  the  strong,  be  God's  great  purpose  for  us,  who  shall 
say  that  the  ruggedness  of  the  narrow  road  is  not  often 
smoothed  for  stumbling  feet  ?)  The  fever  seemed  quite 
providential,  and  Mr.  Ford's  client  felt  quite  pious  about  it. 
He  was  conscious  of  no  mockery  in  dwelling  to  himself  on 
the  thought  that  Jan  was  "better  off"  in  Paradise  with  his 
mother.  And  he  himself  was  safe — for  the  first  time  since 
he  could  remember, — free  at  last  to  become  worthier,  with  no 
black  shadow  at  his  heels.  Very  touching  was  his  resolve 
that  he  would  be  a  better  father  to  his  son  than  his  own 
father  had  been  to  him.  If  he  could  not  train  him  in  high 
principles  and  self-restraint,  he  would  at  least  be  indulgent 
to  the  consequences  of  his  own  indulgence,  and  never  drive 
him  to  those  fearful  straits.  "  But  he'll  be  a  very  different 
young  man  from  what  I  was,"  was  his  final  thought.  "  Thanks 
to  his  good  mother." 

His  mind  was  full  of  Lady  Adelaide's  goodness  as  he 
entered  his  house,  and  she  met  him  in  the  hall. 

"Ah,  Edward?"  she  cried,  "I  am  so  glad  you've  come 
home.  I  want  you  to  see  that  quaint  child  I  was  telling  you 
about." 

"I  don't  remember,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Ford's  client. 

"You're  looking  very  tired,"  said  Lady  Adelaide,  gently  ; 
"  but  about  the  child.     It  is  Lady  Louisa  Ammaby's  little 


162  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

girl.  You  know  I  met  her  just  before  we  left  Brighton.  I 
only  saw  the  child  once,  but  it  is  the  quaintest,  most  original 
little  thing !  So  unlike  its  mother !  She  and  her  mother 
are  ^in  town,  and  they  were  going  out  to  luncheon  to-day  I 
found,  so  I  asked  the  child  here  to  dine  with  D'Arcy.  Her 
bonne  is  taking  off  her  things,  and  I  must  go  and  bring  her 
down." 

As  Lady  Adelaide  went  out,  her  "son  came  in,  and  rushed 
up  to  his  father.  If  Mr.  Ford's  client  had  failed  in  natural 
affection  for  one  son,  his  love  for  the  other  had  a  double  in- 
tensity. He  put  his  arm  tenderly  round  him,  whilst  the  boy 
told  some  long  childish  story,  which  was  not  finished  when 
Lady  Adelaide  returned,  leading  Amabel  by  the  hand.  Am- 
abel was  a  good  deal  taller.  Her  large  feet  were  adorned 
with  ornamental  thread  socks,  and  leathern  shoes  buttoned 
round  the  ankle.  Her  hair  was  cropped,  because  Lady 
Craikshaw  said  this  made  it  grow.  She  wore  a  big  pinafore 
by  the  same  authority,  in  spite  of  which  she  carried  herself 
with  an  admirable  dignity.  The  same  candor,  good  sense, 
and  resolution  shone  from  her  clear  eyes  and  fat  cheeks  as  of 
old.  Mr.  Ford's  client  was  alarming  to  children,  but  Ama- 
bel shook  hands  courageously  with  hint. 

She  was  accustomed  to  exercise  courage  in  her  behavior. 
From  her  earliest  days  a  standard  of  manners  had  been  ex- 
pected of  her  beyond  her  age.  It  was  a  consequence  of  her 
growth.  "  You're  quite  a  big  girl  now,"  was  a  nursery  re- 
proach addressed  to  her  at  least  two  years  before  the  time, 
and  she  tried  valiantly  to  live  up  to  her  inches. 

But  when  Amabel  saw  D'Arcy,  she  started  and  stopped 
short.  "  Won't  you  shake  hands  with  my  boy,  Amabel?" 
said  Lady  Adelaide.  "  Oh,  you  must  make  friends  with  him, 
and  he'll  give  you  a  ride  on  the  rocking-horse  after  dinner. 
Surely  such  a  big  girl  can't  be  shy  ?  " 

Goaded  by  the  old  reproach,  Amabel  made  an  effort,  and, 
advancing  by  herself,  held  out  her  hand,  and  said,  "  How  do 
you  do,  Bogy?" 

D'Arcy 's  black  eyes  twinkled  with  merriment.  "  How  do 
you  do,  Mother  Bunch  ?  "  said  he. 

"  My  dear  D'Arcy ! "  said  Lady  Adelaide,  reproachfully. 

"  Mamma,  I  am  not  rude.  I  am  only  joking.  She  caUs 
me  Bogy,  so  I  call  her  Mother  Bunch." 


$AJ\f  OB  IRE  VViMLMiLL.  I63 

"  But  I'm  not  Mother  Bunch,"  said  Amabel. 

"And  I'm  not  Bogy,"  retorted  D'Arcy. 

"  Yes,  you  are,"  said  Amabel.  "  Only  you  had  very  old 
clothes  on  in  the  wood."  , 

Lady  Craikshaw  had  cruelly  warned  Lady  Adelaide  that 
Amabel  sometimes  told  stories,  and,  thinking  that  the  child 
was  romancing,  Lady  Adelaide  tried  to  change  the  subject. 
But  D'Arcy  cried,  "Oh,  do  let  her  talk,  mamma.  I  do  so 
like  her.     She  is  such  fun !  " 

"  You  oughtn't  to  laugh  at  me,"  said  poor  Amabel,  as 
D'Arcy  took  her  into  the  dining-room,  "  I  gave  you  my  paint- 
box." 

The  boy's  stare  of  amazement  awoke  a  doubt  in  Amabel's 
mind  of  his  identity  with  the  Bogy  of  the  woods.  Between 
constantly  peeping  at  him,  and  her  anxiety  to  conduct  her- 
self conformably  to  her  size  in  the  etiquette  of  the  dinner- 
table,  she  did  not  eat  much.  When  dinner  was  over,  and 
D'Arcy  led  her  away  to  the  rocking-horse,  he  asked, ""  Do  you 
still  think  I'm  Bogy  ?  " 

"  N — no,"  said  Amabel,  "  I  think  perhaps  you're  not. 
But  you're  very  like  him,  though  you  talk  differently.  Do 
you  make  pictures  ?  " 

D'Arcy  shook  his  head. 

"  Not  even  of  leaves  ?  "  said  Amabel. 

When  she  was  going  away,  D'Arcy  asked,  "  Which  do  you 
like  best,  me  or  Bogy  ?  " 

Amabel  pondered.  "  I  like  you  very  much.  You  made 
the  rocking-horse  go  so  fast;  but  I  liked  Bogy.  He  carried 
me  all  up  the  hill,  and  he  picked  up  my  moss.  I  wasn't 
afraid  of  him.     I  gave  him  a  kiss." 

"  Well,  give  me  a  kiss,"  said  D'Arcy.  But  there  was  a 
tone  of  raillery  in  his  voice  which  put  Amabel  on  her  dignity, 
and  she  shook  her  head,  and  began  to  go  down  the  steps  of 
the  house,  one  leg  at  a  time. 

"  If  I'm  Bogy,  you  know,  you  have  kissed  me  once," 
shouted  D'Arcy.  But  Amabel's  wits  were  as  well  developed 
as  her  feet. 

"  Once  is  enough  for  bogies,"  said  she,  and  went  sturdily 
away. 


l£*  yAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL, 


CHAPTER  XXIX, 

JAN    FULFILS    ABEL'S    CHARGE SON   OP    THE    MILL.— THE 

LAEGE-MOUTHED  WOMAN. 

Bt  the  time  Jan  went  back  to  the  windmill  he  was  quite 
well. 

"  Ye'll  be  fit  for  the  walk  by  I  open  school,"  said  Master 
Swift. 

Jan  promised  himself  that  he  would  redouble  his  pains  in 
class,  from  gratitude  to  the  good  schoolmaster.  But  it  was 
not  to  be. 

The  day  before  the  school  opened,  Jan  came  to  the  cottage. 
"  Master  Swift,"  said  he,  "  I  be  come  to  tell  ye  that  I  be 
afraid  I  can't  come  to  school." 

"And  how's  that  ?  "  said  Master  Swift. 

"  Well,  Master  Swift,  I  do  think  I  be  wanted  at  home. 
My  father's  not  got  Abel  now ;  but  it's  my  mother  that 
mostly  wants  me.  I  be  bothered  about  mother,  somehow," 
said  Jan,  with  an  anxious  look.  "  She  do  forget  things  so, 
and  be  so  queer.  She  left  the  beer-tap  running  yesterday, 
and  near  two  gallons  of  ale  ran  out ;  and  this  morning  she 
put  the  kettle  on,  and  no  water  in  it.  And  she  do  cry  terri- 
ble,".Jan  added,  breaking  down  himself.  "But  Abel  says 
to  me  the  day  he  was  took  ill,  'Janny,'  he  says,  '  look  to 
mother.'     And  so  I  will." 

"  You're  a  good  lad,  Jan,"  said  the  schoolmaster.  "  Sit  ye 
down  and  get  your  tea,  and  I'll  come  back  with  ye  to  the 
mill.  A  bit  of  company  does  folk  good  that's  beside  them- 
selves with  fretting." 

But  the  windmiller's  wife  was  beyond  such  simple  cure. 
The  overtasked  brain  was  giving  way,  and  though  there  were 
from  time  to  time  such  capricious  changes  in  her  condition 
as  led  Jan  to  hope  she  was  better,  she  became  more  and  more 
imbecile  to  the  end  of  her  life. 

To  say  that  he  was  a  devoted  son  is  to  give  a  very  vague 
idea  of  his  life  at  this  time  to  those  for  whom  filial  duty 
takes  the  shape  of  compliance  rather  than  of  action,  or  to 
those  who  have  no  experience  of  domestic  attendance  on  the 
infirm  both  of  body  and  of  mind. 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  165 

It  was  not  in  moments  of  tender  feeling,  or  at  Iris  prayers, 
or  by  Abel's  grave,  that  Jan  recalled  his  foster-brother's 
dying  charge ;  but  as  he  emptied  slops,  cleaned  grates,  or 
fastened  Mrs.  Lake's  black  dress  behind.  Nor  did  grati- 
tude flatter  his  zeal.  "  Boys  do  be  so  ackered  with  hooks 
and  eyes,"  the  poor  woman  grumbled  in  her  fretfulness,  and 
then  she  sat  down  to  bemoan  herself  that  she  had  not  a 
daughter  left.  She  had  got  a  trick  of  stopping  short  half 
way  through  her  dressing,  and  giving  herself  up  to  tears, 
which  led  to  Jan's  assisting  at  her  toilette.  He  was  soon 
expert  enough  with  hooks  and  eyes,  the  more  tedious  matter 
was  getting  up  her  courage,  which  invariably  failed  her  at 
the  stage  of  her  linsey-woolsey  petticoat.  But  when  Jan 
had  hooked  her  up,  and  tied  her  apron  on,  and  put  a  little 
shawl  about  her  shoulders,  and  got  her  close-fitting  cap  set 
straight, — a  matter  about  as  easy  as  putting  another  man's 
spectacles  on  his  nose, — and  seated  her  by  the  fire,  the  worst 
was  over.  Mrs.  Lake  always  cheered  up  after  breakfast, 
and  Jan  always  to  the  very  end  hoped  that  this  was  the  be- 
ginning of  her  getting  better. 

Even  after  a  niece  of  the  windnriller's  came  to  live  at  the 
mill,  and  to  wait  on  Mrs.  Lake,  the  poor  woman  was  never 
really  content  without  Jan.  As  time  went  on,  she  wept  less, 
but  her  faculties  became  more  clouded.  She  had  some 
brighter  hours,  and  the  company  of  the  schoolmaster  gave 
her  pleasure,  and  seemed  to  do  her  good.  When  the  Rectoi 
visited  her,  his  very  sympathy  made  him  delicate  about 
dwelling  on  her  bereavement.  When  the  poor  woman  sobbed, 
he  changed  the  subject  in  haste,  and  his  condolences  were  of 
a  very  general  character.  But  Master  Swift  had  no  such 
scruples  ;  and  as  he  sat  by  her  chair,  with  a  kindly  hand  on 
hers,  he  spoke  both  plainly  and  loudly.  The  latter  because 
Mrs.  Lake's  hearing  had  become  dull.  Nor  did  he  cease  to 
speak  because  tears  dropped  perpetually  from  the  eyes  which 
were  turned  to  him,  and  which  seemed  day  by  day  to  lose 
color  from  the  pupils,  and  to  grow  redder  round  the  lids  from 
weeping. 

"  Them  that  sleep  in  Jesus  shall  God  bring  with  Him. 
Ah  !  Mrs.  Lake,  ma'am,  they're  grand  words  for  you  and 
me.  The  Lord  has  dealt  hardly  with  us,  but  there  are  folk 
that  lose  their  children  when  it's  worse.     There's  many  a, 


166  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

Christian  parent  has  lived  to  see  them  grow  up  to  wicked- 
ness, and  lias  lost  'em  in  their  sins,  and  has  had  to  carry  that 
weight  in  his  heart  besides  their  loss,  that  the  Lord's  coun- 
sels for  them  were  dark  to  him.  But  for  yours  and  mine, 
woman,  that  have  gone  home  in  their  innocence,  what  have 
we  to  say  to  the  Almighty,  except  to  pray  of  Him  to  make 
us  fitter  to  take  them  when  He  brings  them  back  ?  " 

Through  the  cloud  that  hung  over  the  poor  woman's  spirit, 
Master  Swift's  plain  consolations  made  their  way.  The 
ruling  thought  of  his  mind  became  the  one  idea  to  which  her 
unhinged  intellect  clung, — the  second  coming  of  the  Lord. 
For  this  she  watched — not  merely  in  the  sense  of  a  readiness 
for  judgment,  but — out  of  the  upper  windows  of  the  wind- 
mill, from  which  could  be  seen  a  vast  extent  of  that  heaven 
in  which  the  sign  of  the  Son  of  Man  should  be,  before  He 
came. 

Sky-gazing  was  an  old  habit  with  Jan,  and  his  active 
imagination  was  not  slow  to  follow  his  foster-mother's  fancies. 
The  niece  did  all  the  house-work,  for  the  freakish  state  of 
Mrs.  Lake's  memory  made  her  help  too  uncertain  to  be 
trusted  to.  But,  with  a  restlessness  which  was  perhaps  part 
of  her  disease,  she  wandered  from  story  to  story  of  the  wind- 
mill, guided  by  Jan,  and  the  windmiller  made  no  objection. 

The  country  folk  who  brought  grist  to  the  mill  would 
strain  their  ears  with  a  sense  of  awe  to  catch  Mrs.  Lake's 
mutterings  as  she  glided  hither  and  thither  with  that  myster- 
ious shadow  on  her  spirit,  and  the  miller  himself  paid  a 
respect  to  her  intellect  now  it  was  shattered  which  he  had 
not  paid  whilst  it  was  whole.  Indeed  he  was  very  kind  to 
her,  and  every  Sunday  he  led  her  tenderly  to  church,  where 
the  music  soothed  her  as  it  soothed  Saul  of  old.  As  the 
brain  failed,  she  became  happier,  but  her  sorrow  was  like  a 
pain  numbed  by  narcotics  ;  it  awoke  again  from  time  to 
time.  She  would  fancy  the  children  were  with  her,  and 
then  suddenly  arouse  to  the  fact  that  they  were  not,  and 
moan  that  she  had  lost  all. 

"  Thee've  got  one  left,  mother  dear,"  Jan  would  cry,  and 
his  caresses  comforted  her.  But  at  times  she  was  troubled 
by  an  imperfect  remembrance  of  Jan's  history,  and,  with 
some  echo  of  her  old  reluctance  to  adopt  him,  she  would  wail 
that  she  "  didn't  want  a  stranger  child."     It  cut  Jan  to  the 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  167 

heart.  Ever  since  he  had  known  that  he  was  not  a  miller's 
son,  he  had  protested  against  the  knowledge.  He  loved  the 
windmill  and  the  windmiller's  trade.  He  loved  his  foster- 
parents,  and  desired  no  others.  He  had  a  miller's  thumb, 
and  he  flattened  it  with  double  pains  now  that  his  right  to  it 
was  disputed.  He  would  press  Mrs.  Lake's  thin  fingers 
against  it  in  proof  that  he  belonged  to  her,  and  the  simple 
wile  was  successful,  for  she  would  smile  and  say,  "  Ay,  ay, 
love  !  Thee's  a  miller's  boy,  for  thee've  got  the  miller's 
thumb." 

Two  or  three  causes  combined  to  strengthen  Jan's  love  for 
his  home.  His  revolt  from  the  fact  that  he  was  no  windmil- 
ler  born  gave  the  energy  of  contradiction.  Then  to  fulfil 
Abel's  behests,  and  to  take  his  place  in  the  mill,  was  now 
Jan's  chief  ambition.  And  whence  could  be  seen  such  glori- 
ous views  as  from  the  windows  of  a  windmill? 

Master  Lake  was  very  glad  of  his  help.  The  quarterly 
payment  had  now  been  due  for  some  weeks,  but,  in  telling 
the  schoolmaster,  he  only  said,  "  I'd  be  as  well  pleased  if 
they  forgot  un  altogether,  now.  I  don't  want  him  took 
away,  no  time.  And  now  I've  lost  Abel,  Jan'll  have  the 
mill  after  me.     He's  a  good  son  is  Jan." 

And,  as  he  echoed  Jan's  praises,  it  never  dawned  on  Mas- 
ter Swift  that  he  was  the  cause  of  the  allowance  having 
stopped.  Jan  was  jealous  of  his  title  as  Master  Lake's  son, 
but  the  schoolmaster  dwelt  much  in  his  own  mind  on  the  fact 
that  Jan  was  no  real  child  of  the  district ;  partly  in  his 
ambition  for  him,  and  partly  out  of  a  dim  hope  that  he 
would  himself  be  some  day  allowed  to  adopt  him.  In  stat- 
ing that  the  windmiller  had  lost  all  his  children  by  the  fever, 
he  had  stated  the  bare  fact  in  all  good  faith  ;  and  as  neither 
he  nor  the  Rector  guessed  the  real  drift  of  Mr.  Ford's  let- 
ter, the  mistake  was  never  corrected. 

Jan  was  useful  in  the  mill.  He  swept  the  round-house, 
coupled  the  sacks,  received  grist  from  the  grist-bringers, 
and  took  payment  for  the  grinding  in  money  or  in  kind, 
according  to»  custom.  The  old  women  who  toddled  in  with 
their  bags  of  cleaned  corn  looked  very  kindly  on  him,  and 
would  say,  "  Thee  be  a  good  bwoy,  sartinly,  Jan,  and  the 
Lard  '11  reward  thee."  If  the  windmiller  came  towards 
one  of  these  dames,  she  would  say,  "Aal  right.  Master 


168  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

Lake,  I  be  in  no  manners  of  hurry,  Jan  '11  do  for  me." 
And,  when  Jan  came,  his  business-like  method  justified  her 
confidence.  "Good  day,  mother,"  he  would  say.  "Will 
ye  pay,  or  toll  it  ? "  "  Bless  ye,  dear  love,  how  should  I 
pay?"  the  old  woman  would  reply.  "I'll  toll  it,  Jan,  and 
thank  ye  kindly."  On  which  Jan  would  dip  the  wooden 
bowl  or  tolling-dish  into  the  sack,  and  the  corn  it  brought 
up  was  the  established  rate  of  payment  for  grinding  the 
rest. 

But,  though  he  constantly  assured  the  schoolmaster  that 
he  meant  to  be  a  windmiller,  Jan  did  not  neglect  bis  special 
gift.  He  got  up  with  many  a  dawn  to  paint  the  sunrise. 
In  still  summer  afternoons,  when  the  mill-sails  were  idle, 
and  Mrs.  Lake  was  dozing  from  the  heat,  he  betook  him- 
self to  the  water-meads  to  sketch.  In  the  mill  itself  he 
made  countless  studies.  Not  only  of  the  ever-changing 
heavens,  and  of  the  monotonous  sweeps  of  the  great  plains, 
whose  aspect  is  more  changeable  than  one  might  think,  but 
studies  on  the  various  floors  of  the  mill,  and  in  the  round- 
house, where  old  meal-bins  and  swollen  sacks  looked  pict- 
uresque in  the  dim  light  falling  from  above,  in  which  also 
the  circular  stones,  the  shaft,  and  the  very  hoppers,  became 
effective  subjects  for  the  Cumberland  lead-pencils. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  summer  following  the  fever, 
Mrs.  Lake  failed  rapidly.  She  sat  out  of  doors  most  of 
the  day,  the  miller  moving  her  chair  from  one  side  to  an- 
other of  the  mill  to  get  the  shade.  Master  Swift  brought 
her  big  nosegays  from  his  garden,  at  which  she  would  smell 
for  hours,  as  if  the  scent  soothed  her.  She  spoke  very  little, 
but  she  watched  the  sky  constantly. 

One  evening  there  wTas  a  gorgeous  sunset.  In  all  its 
splendor,  with  a  countless  multitude  of  little  clouds  about 
it  bright  with  its  light,  the  glory  of  the  sun  seemed  little 
less  than  that  of  the  Lord  Himself,  coming  with  ten  thou- 
sand of  His  saints,  and  the  poor  woman  gazed  as  if  her 
withered,  wistful  eyes  could  see  her  children  among  the 
radiant  host.  "I  do  think  the  Lord  be  coming  to-night, 
Master  Swift,"  she  said.  "  And  He'll  bring  them  with 
Him." 

She  gazed  on  after  all  the  glory  had  faded,  and  lingered 
till  it  grew  dark,  and  the  schoolmaster  had  gone  home.     Jt 


?AN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  169 

was  not  till  her  dress  was  quite  wet  with  dew  that  Jan  in- 
sisted upon  her  going  indoors. 

They  were  coming  round  the  mill  in  the  dusk,  when  a 
cry  broke  from  Mrs.  Lake's  lips,  which  was  only  an  echo 
of  a  louder  one  from  Jan.  A  woman  creeping  round  the 
mill  in  the  opposite  direction  had  just  craned  her  neck 
forward  so  that  Jan  and  his  foster-mother  saw  her  face  for 
an  instant  before  it  disappeared.  Why  Jan  was  so  terri- 
fied, he  would  have  been  puzzled  to  say,  for  the  woman 
was  not  hideous,  though  she  had  an  ugly  mouth.  But  he 
was  terrified,  and  none  the  less  so  from  a  conviction  that 
she  was  looking  intently  and  intentionally  at  him.  When 
he  got  his  foster-mother  indoors,  the  miller  was  disposed  to 
think  the  affair  was  a  fancy ;  but,  as  if  the  shock  had  given 
a  spur  to  her  feeble  senses,  Mrs.  Lake  said  in  a  loud  clear 
voice,  "Measter,  it  be  the  woman  that  brought  our  Jan 
hither ! " 

But  when  the  miller  ran  out,  no  one  was  to  be  seen. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

JAN'S    PROSPECTS    AND    MASTER    SWIFT'S  PLANS TEA  AND 

MILTON NEW    PARENTS PARTING    WITH  RUFDS JAN 

IS    KIDNAPPED. 

This  shock  seemed  to  give  a  last  jar  to  the  frail  state  of 
Mrs.  Lake's  health,  and  the  sleep  into  which  she  fell  that 
night  passed  into  a  state  of  insensibility  in  which  her  sorely 
tried  spirit  was  released  without  pain. 

It  was  said  that  the  windmiller  looked  twice  his  age  from 
trouble.  But  his  wan  appearance  may  have  been  partly 
due  to  the  inroads  of  a  lung  disease,  which  comes  to  millers 
from  constantly  inhaling  the  flour-dust.  His  cheeks  grew 
hollow,  and  his  wasted  hands  displayed  the  windmiller's  coat 
of  arms*  with  painful  distinctness.  The  schoolmaster  spent 
most  of  his  evenings  at  the  mill;  but  sometimes  Jan  went  to 
tea  with  him,  and  by  Master  Lake's  own  desire  he  wrent  to 
school  once  more. 

*  The  blue  marks  on  the  hands  of  a  miller  who  "  sets  "  his  own  stones  ar© 
Called  in  toe  trade  the  "  miller's  coat  of  arms," 


17©  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL, 

Master  Swift  thought  none  the  less  of  Jan's  prospects  that 
it  was  useless  to  discuss  them  with  Master  Lake.  All  his 
plans  were  founded  on  the  belief  that  he  himself  would  live 
to  train  the  boy  to  be  a  windmiller,  whilst  Master  Swift's 
had  reference  to  the  conviction  that  "  miller's  consumption" 
would  deprive  Jan  of  his  foster-father  long  before  he  was 
old  enough  to  succeed  him.  And  had  the  miller  made  his 
will?  Master  Swift  made  his,  and  left  his  few  savings  to 
Jan.  He  could  not  help  hoping  for  some  turn  of  Fortune's 
wheel  which  should  give  the  lad  to  him  for  his  own. 

Jan  was  not  likely  to  lack  friends.  The  Squire  had  heard 
with  amazement  that  Master  Chuter's  new  sign  was  the  work 
of  a  child,  and  he  offered  to  place  him  under  proper  instruc- 
tion to  be  trained  as  an  artist.  But,  at  the  time  that  this 
offer  came,  Jan  was  waiting  on  his  foster-mother,  and  he 
refused  to  betray  Abel's  trust.  The  Rector  also  wished  to 
provide  for  him,  but  he  was  even  more  easily  convinced 
that  Jan's  present  duty  lay  at  home.  Master  Swift  too 
urged  this  in  all  good  faith,  but  his  personal  love  for  Jan, 
and  the  dread  of  parting  with  him,  had  an  influence  of  which 
he  was  hardly  conscious. 

One  evening,  a  few  weeks  after  Mrs.  Lake's  death,  Jan 
had  tea,  followed  by  poetry,  with  the  schoolmaster.  Mas- 
ter Swift  often  recited  at  the  windmill.  The  miller  liked 
to  hear  hymns  his  wife  had  liked,  and  a  few  patriotic  and 
romantic  verses;  but  he  yawned  over  Milton,  and  fell  asleep 
under  Keats,  so  the  schoolmaster  reserved  his  favorites  for 
Jan's  ear  alone. 

"When  tea  was  over,  Jan  sat  on  the  rush-bottomed  chair, 
with  1  lis  feet  on  Kufus,  on  that  side  of  the  hearth  which 
faced  the  window,  and  on  the  other  side  sat  Master  Swift, 
with  the  mongrel  lying  by  him,  and  he  spouted  from  Milton. 
Jan,  familiar  with  many  a  sunrise,  listened  with  parted  lips 
of  pleasure,  as  the  old  man  trolled  forth, — 

"  Right  against  the  eastern  gate, 
Where  the  great  sun  begins  his  state, 
Robed  in  flames  and  amber  light." 

and  with  even  more  sympathy  to  the  latter  part  of  'II  Pen- 
seroso;'  and,  as  when  this  was  ended  he  begged  for  yet 
more,  the  oh!  iimu  began  '  LvLidas.'     He  knew  most  of  it 


JAN  OP  THE  WINDMILL.  i?i 

by  heart,  and  waving  his  hand,  with  his  eyes  fixed  express- 
ively on  Jan,  he  cried, — 

"  Fame  is  the  spur  that  the  clear  spirit  cloth  raise 
(That  last  infirmity  of  noble  minds) 
To  scorn  delights,  and  live  laborious  days." 

And  tears  -filled  his  eyes,  and  made  his  voice  husky,  as  he 
went  on, — 

"  But  the  fair  guerdon  when  we  hope  to  find, 
And  think  to  burst  out  into  sudden  blaze, 
Comes  the  blind  Fury  with  the  abhorred  shears  "— 

Master  Swift  stopped  suddenly.  Rufus  was  growling, 
and  Jan  was  white  and  rigid,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
window. 

As  in  most  North  country  men,,  there  was  in  the  school- 
master an  ineradicable  touch  of  superstition.  He  cursed  the 
"unlucky"  poem,  and  flinging  the  book  from  him  ran 
to  his  favorite.  As  soon  as  Jan  could  speak,  he  gasped, 
"  The  woman  that  brought  me  to  the  mill ! "  But  when 
Master  Swift  went  to  search  the  garden  he  could  find 
no  one. 

Remembering  the  former  alarm,  and  that  no  one  was  to 
be  seen  then,  Master  Swift  came  to  the  conclusion  that  in 
each  case  it  was  a  delusion. 

"  Ye're  a  dear  good  lad,  Jan,"  said  he,  "but  ye've  fagged 
yourself  out.  Take  the  dog  with  ye  to-morrow  for  com- 
pany, and  your  sketch-book,  and  amuse  yourself.  I'll  not 
expect  ye  at  school.  And  get  away  to  your  bed  now.  I 
told  Master  Lake  I  shouldn't  let  ye  away  to-night." 

Jan  went  to  bed,  and  next  morning  was  up  with  the 
lark,  and  writh  Rufus  at  his  heels  went  off  to  a  distant 
place,  where  from  a  mound,  where  a  smaller  road  crossed 
the  highway  to  London,  there  was  a  view  which  he  wished 
to  sketch  under  an  early'  light.  As  lie  drew  near,  he  saw 
a  small  cart,  at  one  side  of  which  the  horse  was  feeding, 
and  at  the  foot  of  the  mound  sat  a  woman  with  a  peddler's 
basket. 

When  Jan  recognized  her,  it  was  too  late  to  run  away. 
And  whither  could  he  have  run  ?  The  four  white  roads 
gleamed  unsheltered  over  the  plains ;  there  was  no  place  to 
hide  in,  and  not  a  soul  in  sight. 


172  '  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

When  the  large-mouthed  woman  seized  Jan  in  her  arms, 
and  kissing  him  cried  aloud,  "  Here  he  is  at  last !  My 
child,  my  long  lost  child  ! "  the  despair  which  sank  into  the 
poor  boy's  heart  made  him  speechless.  Was  it  possible  that 
this  woman  was  his  mother?  His  foster-mother's  words 
tolled  like  a  knell  in  his  ears, — "  The  woman  that  brought 
our  Jan  hither."  At  the  sound  of  Sal's  voice  the  hunch- 
back appeared  from  behind  the  cart,  and  his  wife  dragged 
Jan  towards  him,  crying,  "Here's  our  dear  son !  our  pretty, 
clever  little  son." 

"  I  bean't  your  son  !  "  cried  poor  Jan,  desperately.  "  My 
mother's  dead."  For  a  moment  the  Cheap  Jack's  wife 
seemed  staggered;  but  unluckily  Jan  added,  "She  died  last 
month,"  and  it  was  evident  that  he  knew  nothing  of  his  real 
history. 

"Oh,  them  mill  people,  them  false  wretches!"  screamed 
the  woman.  "  Have  I  been  paying  'em  for  my  precious 
child,  all  this  time,  for  'em  to  teach  him  to  deny  his  own 
mother  !     The  brutes ! " 

Jan's  face  and  eyes  blazed  with  passion.  "  How  dare  you 
abuse  my  good  father  and  mother!"  he  cried.  "  You  be 
the  wretch  and  " — 

But  at  this,  and  the  same  moment,  the  Cheap  Jack  seized 
Jan  furiously  by  the  throat,  and  Rufus  sprang  upon  the 
hunchback.  The  hunchback  was  in  the  greater  danger,  from 
which  only  his  wife's  presence  of  mind  saved  him.  She 
shrieked  to  him  to  let  Jan  go,  that  he  might  call  off  the 
dog,  which  the  vindictive  little  Cheap  Jack  was  loth  to  do. 
And  when  Jan  had  got  Rufus  off,  and  was  holding  him  by 
the  collar,  the  hunchback  seized  a  hatchet  with  which  he  had 
been  cutting  stakes,  and  rushed  upon  the  dog.  Jan  put 
himself  between  them,  crying  incoherently,  "  Let  him 
alone !  He's  not  mine — he  won't  hurt  you — I'll  send  him 
home — I'll  let  un  loose  if  ye  don't;"  and  Sal  held  back 
her  husband,  and  said,  "If  yo'll  behave  civil,  Jan,  my 
dear,  and  as  you  should  do  to  your  poor  mother,  you 
may  send  the  dog  home.  And  well  for  him  too,  for  John's 
a  man  that's  not  very  particular  what  he  does  to  them  that 
puts  him  out  in  a  place  like  this  where  there's  no  one 
to  tell  tales.  He'd  chop  him  limb  from  limb,  a*  soon 
as  not." 


JAN  OF  Ttf£  WINDMILL.  17$ 

Jan  shuddered.  There  was  no  choice,  but  to  save  Rufus. 
He  clung  around  the  curly  brown  neck  in  one  agonized  em- 
brace, and  then  steadied  his  voice  for  an  authoritative, 
"  Home,  Rufus !"  as  he  let  him  go.  Rufus  hesitated,  and 
looked  dangerously  at  the  hunchback,  who  lifted  the  hatchet. 
Jan  shouted  angrily,  "  Home,  Rufus  !"  and  Rufus  obeyed. 
Twenty  times,  as  his  familiar  figure,  with  the  plumy  tail 
curled  sideways,  lessened  along  the  road,  was  Jan  tempted 
to  call  him  back  to  his  destruction  ;  but  he  did  not.  Only 
when  the  brown  speck  was  fairly  lost  to  sight,  his  utter 
friendlessness  overwhelmed  him,  and  falling  on  his  knees 
he  besought  the  woman  with  tears  to  let  him  go, — at  least 
to  tell  Master  Lake  all  about  it. 

The  hunchback  began  to  reply  with  angry  oaths,  but  Sal 
made  signs  to  him  to  be  silent,  and  said,  "  It  comes  very 
hard  to  me,  Jan,  to  be  treated  this  way  by  my  only  son,  but, 
if  you'll  be  a  good  boy,  I'm  willing  to  oblige  you,  and  we'll 
drive  round  by  the  mill  to  let  you  see  your  friends,  though 
it's  out  of  the  way  too." 

Jan  was  profuse  of  thanks,  and  by  the  woman's  desire  he 
sat  down  to  share  their  breakfast.  The  hunchback  examined 
his  sketch-book,  and,  as  he  laid  it  down  again,  he  asked, 
"  Did  you  ever  make  picters  on  stone,  eh?" 

"  Before  I  could  get  paper,  I  did,  sir,"  said  Jan. 

"But  could  you  now?  Could  you  make 'em  on  a  flat 
stone,  like  a  paving-stone  ?  " 

"If  I'd  anything  to  draw  with,  I  could,"  said  Jan.  "I 
could  draw7  on  anything,  if  I  had  something  in  my  hand  to 
draw  with." 

The  Cheap  Jack's  face  became  brighter,  and  in  a  mollified 
tone  he  said  to  his  wife,  "He's  a  prime  card  for  such  a 
young  un.  It's  a  rum  thing,  too!  A  man  I  knowTed  was 
grand  at  screeving,  but  he  said  himself  he  was  nowdieres  on 
paper.  He  made  fifteen  to  eighteen  shillin'  a  week  on  a 
average,"  the  hunchback  continued.  "  I've  knowed  him 
take  two  pound." 

"  Did  you  ever  draw  fish,  my  dear?  "  he  inquired. 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Jan.  "  But  I've  drawn  pigs  and  dogs, 
and  I  be  mostly  able  to  draw  any  thing  I  sees,  I  think." 

The  Cheap  Jack  whistled.  "  Profiles  pays  well,"  he 
murmured ;  "  but  the  tip  is  the  Young  Prodigy." 


174  JAN  OP  TJSJ?  WINDMILL 

"  We're  so  pleased  to  see  what  a  clever  boy  you  are,  Jan," 
said  Sal ;  "  that's  all,  my  clear.  Put  the  beidle  on  the  horse, 
John,  for  we've  got  to  go  round  by  the  mill." 

Whilst  the  Cheap  Jack  obeyed  her,  Sal  poked  in  the  cart, 
from  which  she  returned  with  three  tumblers  on  a  plate. 
She  gave  one  to  her  husband,  took  one  herself,  and  gave 
the  third  to  Jan. 

"  Here's  to  your  health,  love,"  said  she  ;  "  drink  to  mine, 
Jan,  and  I'll  be  a  good  mother  to  you."  Jan  tasted,  and 
put  his  glass  down  again,  choking.  "  It's  so  strong !  "  he 
said. 

The  Cheap  Jack  looked  furious.  "  Nice  manners  they've 
taught  this  brat  of  yours!"  he  cried  to  Sal.  "  Do  ye  think 
I'm  going  to  take  my  'oss  a  mile  out  of  the  road  to  take 
him  to  see  his  friends,  when  he  won't  so  much  as  drink  our 
good  healths  ?  " 

"Oh!  I  will,  indeed  I  will,  sir,"  cried  Jan.  He  had 
taken  a  good  deal  of  medicine  during  his  illness,  and  he  had 
learned  the  art  of  gulping.  He  emptied  the  little  tumbler 
into  his  mouth,  and  swallowed  the  contents  at  a  gulp. 

They  choked  him,  but  that  was  nothing.  Then  he  felt  as 
if  something  seized  him  in  the  inside  of  every  limb.  After 
he  lost  the  power  of  moving,  he  could  hear,  and  he  heard 
the  Cheap  Jack  say,  "  I'd  go  in  for  the  Young  Prodigy, 
genteel  from  the  first ;  only,  if  we  goes  among  the  nobs,  he 
may  be  recognized.     He's  a  rum-looking  beggar." 

"  If  you  don't  go  a  drinking  every  penny  he  earns,"  said 
Sal,  pointedly,  "  we'll  soon  get  enough  in  a  common  line  to 
take  us  to  Ameriky,  and  he'll  be  safe  enough  there."  On 
this  Jan  thought  that  he  made  a  most  desperate  struggle  and 
remonstrance.  But  in  reality  his  lips  never  moved  from 
their  rigidity,  and  he  only  rolled  his  head  upon  his  shoulder. 
After  which  he  remembered  no  more. 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  175 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

SCREEVING AN     OLD     SONG MR.    FORD'S     CLIENT THE 

PENNY    GAFF JAN    RUNS    AWAY. 

There  was  a  large  crowd,  but  large  crowds  gather  quickly 
in  London  from  small  causes.  It  was  in  an  out-of-the-way 
spot  too,  and  the  police  had  not  yet  tried  to  disperse  it. 

The  crowd  was  gathered  round  a  street-artist  who  was 
"  screeving,"  or  drawing  pictures  on  the  pavement  in  colored 
chalks.  A  good  many  men  have  followed  the  trade  in  Lon- 
don with  some  success,  but  this  artist  was  a  wan,  meagre- 
looking  child.  It  was  Jan.  He  drew  with  extraordinary 
rapidity  ;  not  with  the  rapidity  of  slovenliness,  but  with  the 
rapidity  of  a  genius  in  the  choice  of  what  Ruskin  calls  "fate- 
ful lines."  At  his  back  stood  the  hunchback, who  "  pattered  " 
in  description  of  the  drawings  as  glibly  as  he  used  to.  "  puff" 
his  own  wares  as  a  Cheap  Jack. 

"  Cats  on  the  roof  of  a  house.  Look  at  'em,  ladies  and 
gentlemen  ;  and  from  their  harched  backs  to  their  tails 
and  whiskers,  and  the  moon  a-shining  in  the  sky,  you'll  say 
they're  as  natteral  as  life.  Ob-serve  the  fierceness  in  the 
eye  of  that  black  Tom.  The  one  that's  a-coming  round  the 
chimney-pot  is  a  Sandy ;  yellow  ochre  in  the  body,  and  the 
markings  in  red.  There  isn't  a  hartist  living  could  do  'em 
better,  though  I  says  it  that's  the  lad's  father." 

The  cats  were  very  popular,  and  so  were  the  Prize  Pig, 
Playful  Porkers,  Sow  and  her  Little  Ones,  as  exhibited  by 
the  Cheap  Jack.  But  the  prime  favorite  was  "  The  Faith- 
ful Friend,"  consisting  of  sketches  of  Rufus  in  various  atti- 
tudes, including  a  last  sleep  on  the  grave  of  a  supjjosititious 
master,  which  Jan  drew  with  a  heart  that  ached  as  if  it 
must  break. 

It  was  growing  dark,  but  the  exhibition  had  been  so  suc- 
cessful that  day,  and  the  crowd  was  still  so  large,  that  the 
hunchback  wras  loath  to  desist.  At  a  sign  from  him,  Jan 
put  his  colored  chalks  into  a  little  pouch  in  front  of  him, 
and  drew  in  powerful  chiaroscuro  with  soft  black  chalk  and 
whitening.  These  sketches  were  visible  for  some  time,  and 
the  interest  of  the  crowd  did  not  abate. 


I76  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

Suddenly  a  flush  came  over  Jan's  wan  cheeks.  A  bake! 
,vho  had  paused  for  a  moment  to  look,  and  then  passed  on 
was  singing  as  he  went,  and  the  song  and  the  man  ■  accent 
were  both  familiar  to  Jan. 


'  The  swallow  twitters  on  the  barn, 
The  rook  is  cawing  on  the  tree, 
And  in  the  wood  the  ring-dove  cooes  - 


«  What's  your  name,  boy  ?  "  ■ 

The  peremptory  tone  of  the  question  turned  Jan  s  atten, 
tion  from  the  song,  which  died  away  down  the  street,  and 
Sing  up  he  met°  a  pair  of  eyes  as  blackas  Ins  own  and 
Mr  Ford's  client  repeated  his  question.  On  seeing  that  a 
-swell"  had  paused  to  look,  the  Cheap  Jack  hurried  to 
Jan's  side,  and  was  in  time  to  answer. 

"John  Smith's  his  name,  sir.  He's  slow  of  speech,  my 
lord,  though  very  quick  with  his  pencil.  There  s  not  many 
artists  can  beat  him,  though  I  says  it  that  shouldn't,  being 

his  father."  ,  ,,  -„■      .     „rtf 

"Tern    his   father?"  said   the   gentleman.     "He   is   not 

mU4ek?avo°rs''his  mother  more,  my  lord,"  said  the  Cheap 
Jack  ;  "  and  that's  where  he  gets  his  talents  too. 

"No  one  ever  thought  he  got  'em  from  you,old  humpy 
said  one  of  the  spectators,  and  there  was  a  roar  of  laughter 

^^SSfSS  still  lingered,  though  the  staring  and 
pushing  of  the  rude  crowd  were  annoying  to  him. 

"Do  you  really  belong  to  this  man?"  he  asked  of  Jan, 
and  Jan  replied,  trembling,  "Yes,  sir." 

"Your  son  doesn't  look  as  if  you  treated  "f^/f'  . 
said  the  gentleman,  turning  to  the  Cheap  Jack.  Take 
that,  and  give  him  a  good  supper  this  evening.     He  deserves 

\ 'is  the  Cheap  Jack  stooped  for  the  half  crown  thrown  to 
him  Mr.  Ford's  client  gave  Jan  some  pence,  saying,  lou 
can  keep  these  yourself!"  Jan's  face,  with  a  ook  of  grati- 
Ze  upoPnit,  seemed  to  startle  him  afresh,  but  xtwas  get  mg 
dark  and  the  crowd  was  closing  round  him.  Jan  had  just 
enlertahied  a  wild  thought  of  asking  his  protection,  when  he 
was  gone,  , 


'WHAT'S  YOUR  FAME,  BOY?"  A 

Page  176. 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  177 

What  the  strange  gentleman  had  said  about  his  unlike- 
ness  to  the  Cheap  Jack,  and  also  the  thoughts  awakened 
by  hearing  the  old  song,  gave  new  energy  to  a  resolve  to 
which  Jan  had  previously  come.  He  had  resolved  to  run 
away. 

Since  lie  awoke  from  the  stupor  of  the  draught  which  Sal 
had  given  him  at  the  cross-roads,  and  found  himself  utterly 
in  the  power  of  the  unscrupulous  couple  who  pretended  to 
be  his  parents,  his  life  had  been  miserable  enough.  They 
had  never  intended  to  take  him  back  to  the  mill,  and,  since 
they  came  to  London  and  he  was  quite  at  their  mercy,  they 
had  made  no  pretense  of  kindness.  That  they  kept  him 
constantly  at  work  could  hardly  be  counted  an  evil,  for  his 
working  hours  were  the  only  ones  with  happiness  in  them, 
except  when  he  dreamed  of  home.  Not  the  cold  pavement 
chilling  him  through  his  ragged  clothes,  not  the  strange 
staring  and  jesting  of  the  rough  crowds,  not  even  the  hideous 
sense  of  the  hunchback's  vigilant  oversight  of  him,  could 
destroy  his  pleasure  in  the  sense  of  the  daily  increasing 
powers  of  his  fingers,  in  which  genius  seemed  to  tremble  to 
create.  In  the  few  weeks  of  his  apprenticeship  to  screeving, 
Jan  had  improved  more  quickly  than  he  might  have  done 
under  such  teaching  as  the  Squire  had  been  willing  to  pro- 
cure for  the  village  genius.  At  the  peril  of  floggings  from 
the  Cheap  Jack,  too  many  of  which  had  already  scarred  his 
thin  shoulders,  he  ransacked  his  brains  for  telling  subjects, 
and  forced  from  his  memory  the  lines  which  told  most,  and 
told  most  quickly,  of  the  pathetic  look  on  Rufus's  face,  the 
anger,  pleasure,  or  playfulness  of  the  mill  cats.  Perhaps 
none  of  us  know  what  might  be  forced,  against  our  natural 
indolence,  from  the  fallow  ground  of  our  capabilities  in 
many  lines.  The  spirit  of  a  popular  subject  in  the  fewest 
possible  strokes  was  what  Jan  had  to  aim  at  for  his  daily 
bread,  under  peril  of  bodily  harm  hour  after  hour,  for  day 
after  day,  and  his  hand  gained  a  cunning  it  might  never 
otherwise  have  learned,  and  could  never  unlearn  now. 

In  other  respects,  his  learning  was  altogether  of  evil. 
Perhaps  because  they  wished  to  reconcile  him  to  his  life, 
perhaps  because  his  innocent  face  and  uncorrupted  char- 
acter were  an  annoyance  and  reproach  to  the  wicked  couple, 

12 


178  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

they  encouraged  Jan  to  associate  with  the  boys  of  their  own 
and  the  neighboring  courts. 

Many  people  are  sorry  to  believe  that  there  are  a  great 
many  wicked  and  depraved  grown-up  people  in  all  large 
towns,  whose  habits  of  vice  are  so  firm,  and  whose  moral 
natures  are  so  loose,  that  their  reformation  is  practically 
almost  hopeless.  But  much  fewer  people  realize  the  fact 
that  thousands  of  little  children  are  actively,  hideously  vi- 
cious and  degraded.  And  yet  it  is  better  that  this  should  be 
remembered  than  that,  since,  though  it  is  more  painful,  it  is 
more  hopeful.  It  is  hard  to  reform  vicious  children,  but  it 
is  easier  than  to  reform  vicious  men  and  women. 

Little  boys  and  little  girls  of  eight  or  nine  or  ten  years 
old,  who  are  also  drunkards,  swearers,  thieves,  gamblers, 
liars,  and  vicious,  made  Jan  a  laughing-stock,  because  of  his 
simple  childlike  ways.  They  called  him  "green;"  but, 
when  he  made  friends  with  them  by  drawing  pictures  for 
them,  they  tried  to  teach  him  their  own  terrible  lore.  Once 
the  Cheap  Jack  gave  Jan  a  penny  to  go  with  some  other 
boys  to  a  penny  theatre,  or  "  gaff."  The  depravity  of  the 
entertainment  was  a  light  matter  to  the  depravity  of  the 
children  by  whom  the  place  was  crowTded,  and  who  had  not 
80  much  lost  as  never  found  shame.  Jan  was  standing 
amongst  them,  when  he  caught  sight  of  a  boy  with  a  white 
head  leaning  over  the  gallery,  whose  face  had  a  curious  acci- 
dental likeness  to  Abel's.  The  expression  was  quite  differ- 
ent, for  this  one  was  partly  imbecile,  but  there  was  just 
likeness  enough  to  recall  the  past  with  an  unutterable  pang. 
"What  would  Abel  have  said  to  see  him  there  ?  Jan  could 
not  breathe  in  the  place.  The  others  were  engaged,  and  he 
fought  his  way  out. 

What  he  had  heard  and  seen  rang  in  his  ears  and  danced 
before  his  eyes  after  he  crept  to  bed,  as  the  dawn  broke  over 
the  streets.  But  as  if  Abel  himself  had  watched  by  his 
bedside  as  he  used  to  do,  and  kept  evil  visiont)  away,  it  did 
not  trouble  his  dreams.  He  dreamed  of  the  windmill,  and 
of  his  foster-mother;  of  the  little  wood,  and  of  Master 
Swift  and  Rufus. 

After  that  night  Jan  had  resolved  that,  whether  Sal  were 
his  mother  or  not,  he  would  run  away.  In  the  strength  of 
his  foster-brother's  pious  memory  he  would  escape  from  this 


JAN  OF  THE  WIN t)  MILL.  179 

evil  life.  He  would  beg  his  way  back  to  the  village,  and 
to  the  upright,  godly  schoolmaster,  or  at  least  die  in  the 
country  ou  the  road  thither.  He  had  not  associated  with 
the  ragamuffins  of  the  court  without  learning  a  little  of  their 
cunning ;  and  he  had  waited  impatiently  for  a  chance  of 
eluding  the  watchfulness  of  the  Cheap  Jack. 

But  the  sound  of  that  song  and  the  meeting  with  Mr. 
Ford's  client  determined  him  to  wait  no  longer,  but  to  make 
a  desperate  effort  for  freedom  then  and  there.  The  Cheap 
Jack  was  collecting  the  pence,  and  Jan  had  made  a  few  bold 
black  strokes  at  a  beginning  of  a  new  sketch,  when  he  ran 
up  to  the  Cheap  Jack  and  Whispered,  "  Get  me  a  ha'perth  of 
whitening,  father,  as  fast  as  you  can.  There's  an  oil-shop 
yonder." 

"All  right,  Jan,"  said  the  hunchback.  "Keep  'em  to- 
gether, my  dear,  meanwhile.  We're  doing  prime,  and  you 
shall  have  a  sausage  for  supper." 

As  the  Cheap  Jack  waddled  away  for  the  whitening,  Jan 
said  to  the  lookers-on,  "Keep  your  places,  ladies  and  gentle- 
men, till  I  return,  and  keep  your  eyes  on  the  drawing, 
which  is  the  last  of  the  series,"  and  ran  off  down  a  narrow 
street,  at  right  angles  to  the  oil-shop. 

The  crowd  waited  patiently  for  some  moments.  Then  the 
Cheap  Jack  hurried  back  with  the  whitening.  But  Jan  re- 
turned no  more. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

THE     BAKER ON     AND     ON THE     CHURCH     BELL. A    DI- 
GRESSION  A    FAMILIAR    HYMN THE    BOYS'    HOME. 

Jan  stopped  at  last  from  lack  of  breath  to  go  on.  His 
feet  had  been  winged  by  terror,  and  he  looked  back  even 
now  with  fear  to  see  the  Cheap  Jack's  misshapen  figure  in 
pursuit.  He  had  had  no  food  for  hours,  but  the  pence  the 
dark  gentleman  had  given  him  were  in  his  chalk  pouch,  and 
he  turned  into  the  first  baker's  shop  he  came  to  to  buy  a 
penny  loaf.  It  was  a  small  shop,  served  by  a  pleasant- 
faced  man,  who  went  up  and  down,  humming,  whistling,  and 
singing 


1 8a  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

"  Like  tiny  pipe  of  wheaten  straw, 
The  wren  his  little  note  doth  swell, 
And  every  living  thing  that  flies" — 

"  A  penny  loaf,  please,"  said  Jan,  laying  down  the  money, 
and  the  man  turned  and  said,  "  Why,  you  be  the  boy  that 
draws  on  the  pavement !  " 

For  a  moment  Jan  was  silent.  It  presented  itself  to  him 
as  a  new  difficulty,  that  he  was  likely  to  be  recognized. 
There  was  a  flour  barrel  by  the  counter,  and  as  he  pondered 
he  began  mechanically  to  sift  the  flour  through  his  finger 
and  thumb. 

"You  be  used  to  flour  seemingly,"  said  the  baker,  smil- 
ing. "Was  'ee  ever  in  a  mill?  'ee  seems  to  have  a  miller's 
thumb." 

In  a  few  minutes  Jan  had  told  his  story,  and  had  learned, 
with  amazement  and  delight,  that  the  baker  had  not  only 
been  a  windmiller's  man,  but  had  worked  in  Master  Lake's 
tower  mill.  He  was,  in  fact,  the  man  who  had  helped 
George  the  very  night  that  Jan  arrived.  But  he  confirmed 
the  fact  that  it  was  Sal  who  brought  Jan,  by  his  account  of 
her,  and  he  seemed  to  think  that  she  was  probably  his 
mother.  He  was  very  kind.  He  refused  to  take  payment 
for  the  loaf,  and  went,  humming,  whistling,  and  singing, 
away  to  get  Jan  some  bacon  to  eat  with  it. 

When  he  was  alone,  Jan's  hand  went  back  to  the  flour, 
and  he  sifted  and  thought.  The  baker  was  kind,  but  he 
had  said  that  "  it  was  an  ackerd  thing  for  a  boy  to  quarrel 
with  's  parents."  Jan  felt  that  he  expected  him  to  go  home. 
Perhaps  at  this  moment  the  baker  had  gone,  with  the  best 
intentions,  to  fetch  the  Cheap  Jack,  and  bring  about  a  family 
reunion.  Terror  had  become  an  abiding  state  of  Jan's 
mind,  and  it  seized  him  afresh,  like  a  palsy.  He  left  the 
penny  on  the  counter,  and  shook  the  flour-dust  from  his 
fingers,  and,  stealing  with  side  glances  of  dread  into  the 
street,  he  sped  away  once  more. 

He  had  no  knowledge  of  localities.  He  ran  "  on  and  on," 
as  people  do  in  fairy  talcs.  Sometimes  he  rested  on  a  door- 
step, sometimes  he  hid  in  a  shutter  box  or  under  an  arch- 
way. He  had  learned  to  avoid  the  police,  and  he  moved 
quickly  from  one  dark  corner  to  another  with  a  hunted  look 
in  his  black  eyes.     Late  in  the  night  he  found  a  heap  of 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL..  181 

straw  near  a  warehouse,  on  which  he  lay  down  and  fell 
asleep.  At  eight  o'clock  the  next  morning  he  was  awakened 
by  the  clanging  of  a  bell,  and  he  jumped  up  in  time  to  avoid 
a  porter  who  was  coming  to  the  warehouse,  and  ran  "on  and 
on." 

It  was  a  bright  morning,  and  the  sun  was  shining ;  but 
Jan's  feet  were  sore,  and  his  bones  ached  from  cold  and 
weariness.  Yesterday  the  struggle  to  escape  the  Cheap 
Jack  had  kept  him  up,  but  now  he  could  only  feel  his  utter 
loneliness  and  misery.  There  was  not  a  friendly  sound  in 
all  the  noises  of  the  great  city, — the  street  cries  of  food  he 
could  not  buy,  the  quarrelling,  the  laughter  with  which  he 
had  no  concern,  the  tramp  of  strange  feet,  the  roar  of  traffic 
and  prosperity  in  which  he  had  no  part. 

He  was  so  lonely,  so  desolate,  that  when  a  sound  came  to 
him  which  was  familiar  and  pleasant,  and  full  of  old  and 
good  and  happy  associations,  it  seemed  to  bring  his  sad  life 
to  a  climax,  to  give  just  one  strain  too  much  to  his  powers  of 
endurance.  Like  the  white  lights  he  put  to  his  black 
sketches,  it  seemed  to  bring  the  darkness  of  his  life  into 
relief,  and  he  felt  as  if  he  could  bear  no  more,  and  would 
like  to  sit  down  and  die.  The  sound  came  through  the 
porch  of  a  church.  It  was  the  singing  of  a  hymn, — one  of 
Charles  Wesley's  hymns,  of  which  Master  Swift  was  so 
fond. 

The  sooty  iron  gates  were  open,  and  so  was  the  door.  Jan 
crept  in  to  peep,  and  he  caught  sight  of  a  stained  window 
full  of  pale  faces,  which  seemed  to  beckon  him,  and  he  went 
into  the  church  and  no  one  molested  him. 

There  is  a  very  popular  bit  of  what  I  venture  to  think  a 
partly  false  philosophy  which  comes  up  again  and  again  in 
magazines  and  story  books  in  the  shape  of  satirical  contrasts 
between  the  words  of  the  General  Confession,  or  the  Litany, 
and  the  particular  materials  in  which  the  Avorshippers,  the 
intercessors,  and  the  confessing  sinners  happen  to  be  clothed. 
But,  since  broadcloth  has  never  yet  been  made  stout  enough 
to  keep  temptation  from  the  soul,  and  silk  has  proved  no 
protection  against  sorrow,  I  confess  that  I  never  could  see 
any  thing  more  incongruous  in  the  confessions  and  petitions 
of  handsomely  dressed  people  than  of  ragged  ones.  That 
any   sinner  can  be  "  miserable  "  in  satin,  seems  impossible, 


182  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

or  at  least  offensive,  to  some  minds  ;  perhaps  to  those  who 
know  least  of  the  reckless,  callous  light- heartedness  of  the 
most  ragged  reprobates. 

This  has  nothing  to  do,  it  seems  to  me,  with  the  fact  that 
a  certain  degree  of  outlay  on  dress  is  criminal,  on  several 
grave  accounts  ;  nor  even  with  the  incongruous  spectacle  cf 
a  becoming  bonnet  arranged  during  the  Litany  by  the 
tightly  gloved  fingers  of  a  worshipper,  who  would  probably 
not  be  any  the  more  devout  for  being  uncomfortably  con- 
scious of  bad  clothes.  An  old  friend  of  my  childhood  used 
to  tell  me  that  she  always  thought  a  good  deal  of  her  dress 
before  going  to  church,  that  she  might  quite  forget  it  when 
there. 

Surely,  dress  has  absolutely  nothing  to  do  with  devotion. 
And  the  impertinent  patronage  of  worshippers  in  "  fustian  " 
is  at  least  as  offensive  as  the  older-fashioned  vulgarity  of 
pride  in  congregations  who  "  come  in  their  own  carriages." 
And  I  do  protest  against  the  flippant  inference  that  good 
clothes  for  the  body  must  lowTer  the  assumptions  of  the 
spirit,  or  make  repentance  insincere  ;  which  I  no  more  be- 
lieve than  that  the  worship  of  a  clean  Christian  is  less  ac- 
ceptable than  that  of  a  brother  who  cannot  afford  or  does  not 
value  the  use  of  soap. 

"  I  am  perhaps  anxious  to  defend  this  congregation,  on 
which  Jan  stumbled  in  the  pale  light  of  early  morning  in 
the  city,  from  any  imputation  on  the  sincerity  of  its  worship, 
because  it  was  mostly  very  comfortably  clad.  The  men 
were  chiefly  business  men,  with  a  good  deal  of  the  obnox- 
ious "  broadcloth "  about  them,  and  with  well-brushed 
hats  beneath  their  seats.  One  of  the  stoutest  and  most 
comfortable-looking,  with  an  intelligent  face  and  a  fair  clean 
complexion  which  spoke  of  good  food,  stood  near  the  door. 
He  wore  a  new  great-coat  with  a  velvet  collar,  but  his  gray 
eyes  (they  had  seen  middle  age,  and  did  not  shine  with  any 
flash  of  youthful  enthusiasm)  were  fixed  upon  the  window, 
and  as  he  sang  very  heartily,  and  by  heart, — 

"  Other  Refuge  have  I  none  I 
Hangs  my  helpless  soul  on  Thee; 
Leave,  ah  1  leave  me  not  alone, 
Still  support  and  comfort  me." 

The  tears  flowed  down  Jan's  cheeks,    It  had  been  a 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  183 

favorite   hymn  of  his  foster-mother,  and  he  had  often  sung 

it  to  her.      Master  Swift  used  to  "  give  the  note,"  and  then 

sink  himself  into  the  bass  part,  and  these  quaint  duets  had 

been    common    at    the   mill.     How    delightful    such  simple 

pleasures    seem   to  those   who  look  back  on  them  from  the 

dark  places  of  the  earth,  full  of  misery  and  wickedness  ! 

In   spite    of  his    tears,  Jan  was  fain  to  join  as  the  hymn 

went  on,  and  he  sang  like  a  bird, — 

"  All  my  trust  on  Thee  is  stayed, 
All  my  help  from  Thee  I  bring ; 
Cover  my  defenceless  head 
With  the  shadow  of  Thy  wing." 

It  was  the  hymn  after  the  third  collect,  and  when  it  was 
ended  the  comfortable-looking  gentleman  motioned  Jan  into 
a  seat,  and  he  knelt  down. 

When  the  service  was  over,  the  same  gentleman  took  him 
by  the  arm,  and  asked,  "  What's  the  matter  with  you,  my 
boy?" 

A  rapid  survey  of  his  woes  led  Jan  to  reply,  '.'I've  no 
home,  sir." 

The  congregation  had  dispersed  quickly,  for  the  men  were 
going  to  business. 

This  gentleman  walked  fast,  and  he  hurried  Jan  along 
with  him. 

"  Who  are  your  parents  ?  "  he  asked.  The  service  had 
recalled  Jan's  highest  associations,  and  he  was  anxious  to 
tell  the  strict  truth. 

'•I  don't  rightly  know,  sir,"  said  he. 

"  Are  you  hungry  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  sobbed  poor  Jan. 

They  were  stopping  before  a  large  house,  and  the  gentle- 
man said,  "Look  here,  my  boy.  If  you  had  a  good  home, 
and  good  food,  and  clothes,  would  you  work  ?  Would  you 
try  to  be  a  good  lad,  and  learn  an  honest  trade  ?  " 

"  I'd  be  glad,  sir,"  said  Jan. 

"Have  you  ever  worked?  What  can  you  do?"  asked 
the  gentleman. 

"I  can  mind  pigs  ;  but  I  do  think  'twould  be  best  for  I  to 
be  in  a  mill,  and  I've  got  a  miller's  thumb."  Jan  said  this 
because  the  idea  had  struck  him  that  if  he  could* only  get 
home  again  he  might  hire  himself  out  at  a  mop  to  Master 
Lake.     A  traditional  belief  in  the  force  of  the  law  of  hiring 


184  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

made  him  think  that  this  would  protect  him  against  any 
claim  of  the  Cheap  Jack.  Before  the  gentleman  could 
reply,  the  house-door  was  opened  by  a  boy  some  years  older 
than  Jan,  who  was  despatched  to  fetch  "  the  master."  Jan 
felt  sure  that  it  must  be  a  school,  though  he  was  puzzled  by 
the  contents  of  the  room  in  which  they  waited.  It  was 
filled  with  pretty  specimens  of  joiner's  and  cabinet-maker's 
work,  some  quite  and  some  partly  finished.  There  were 
also  brushes  of  various  kinds,  so  that,  if  there  had  been  a 
suitable  window,  Jan  would  have  concluded  that  it  was  a 
shop.  In  two  or  three  moments  the  master's  step  sounded 
in  the  passage. 

Jan  had  pleasant  associations  with  the  word  "  master," 
and  lie  looked  up  with  some  vague  fancy  of  seeing  a  second 
Master  Swift.  Not  that  Master  Swift,  or  any  one  else  in 
the  slow-going  little  village,  ever  walked  with  this  sharp, 
hasty  tread,  as  if  one  hoped  to  overtake  time!  With  such  a 
step  the  gentleman  himself  went  away,  when  he  had  said  to 
Jan,  "Be  a  good  boy,  my  lad,  and  attend  to  your  master,  and 
he'll  be  a  good  friend  to  you." 

He  was  not  in  the  least  like  Master  Swift.  He  was 
young,  and  youthfully  dressed.  A  schoolmaster  with  neither 
spectacles  nor  a  black  coat  was  a  new  idea  to  Jan ;  but  he 
seemed  to  be  kind,  for,  with  a  sharp  look  at  Jan's  pinched 
face,  he  said,  "You'll  be  glad  of  some  breakfast,  my  lad,  I 
fancy;  and  breakfast's  only  just  over.  Come  along."  And 
away  he  went  at  double  quick  time  down  the  passage,  and 
Jan  ran  after  him. 

On  their  way  to  the  kitchen,  they  crossed  an  open  court 
where  boys  were  playing,  and  round  which  ran  mottoes  in 
large  letters. 

"  You  can  read  ?  "  said  the  master,  quickly,  as  he  caught 
Jan's  eyes  following  the  texts.  "Have  you  ever  been  to 
school?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Jan. 

"  Can  you  write?     What  else  have  you  learned?" 

Jan  pondered  his  stock  of  accomplishments.  "I  can 
write,  sir,  and  cipher.  And  I've  learned  geography  and 
history--  and  Master  Swift  gave  I  lessons  in  mechanics,  and 
I  be  very  fond  of  poetry  and  painting,  and  " — 

The  master  was  painfully  familiar  wjth  the  inventive  an^ 


yAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  185 

boastful  powers  of  street  boys.  He  pushed  Jan  before  him 
into  the  kitchen,  saying  smartly,  but  good-humoredly, 
"  There,  there  !  Don't  make  up  stories,  my  boy.  You  must 
learn  to  speak  the  truth,  if  you  come  into  the  Home.  We 
don't  expect  poets  and  painters,"  he  added,  smiling.  "  If 
you  can  chop  wood,  and  learn  what  you're  taught,  you'll  do 
for  us." 

A  smile  stole  over  the  face  of  a  shrewd -looking  lad  who 
was  washing  dishes  at  the  table.  Jan  saw  that  he  was  not 
believed,  and  his  tears  fell  into  the  mug  of  cocoa,  and  on  to 
the  bread  which  formed  his  breakfast. 


CHAPTER   XXXIII. 

THE    BUSINESS     MAN     AND     THE    PAINTER PICTURES    AND 

POT     BOILERS CIMABUE     AND     GIOTTO THE     SALMON- 
COLORED    OMNIBUS. 

The  business  men  were  half  way  to  their  business  when 
the  shadow  of  the  sooty  church  still  fell  upon  one  or  two 
of  the  congregation  who  dispersed  more  slowly;  a  few  aged 
poor  who  lingered  from  infirmity  as  well  as  leisure  ;  and  a 
man  neither  very  old  nor  very  poor,  whose  strong  limbs  did 
not  bear  him  away  at  a  much  quicker  pace.  His  enjoyment 
of  the  peculiar  pleasures  of  an  early  walk  was  deliberate  as 
as  well  as  full,  and  bustle  formed  no  necessary  part  of  his 
trade.     He  wras  a  painter. 

The  business  gentleman  hurrying  out  of  the  Boy's  Home 
stumbled  against  the  painter,  whom  he  knew,  but  whom  just 
now  he  would  not  have  been  sorry  to  avoid,  The  very  next 
salmon-colored  omnibus  that  passed  the  end  •  of  the  street 
would  only  just  enable  him  to  be  punctual  if  he  could  catch 
it,  and  the  painter,  in  his  opinion,  had  "no  sense  of  the  value 
of  time."  The  painter,  on  the  other  hand,  held  as  strong  a 
conviction  that  his  friend's  sense  of  the  monetary  value  of 
time  was  so  exaggerated  as  to  hinder  his  sense  of  many 
higher  things  in  this  beautiful  world.  But  they  were  fast 
friends  nevertheless,  and  writh  equal  charity  pitied  each  other 
respectively  for  a  slovenly  and  a  slavish  way  of  life. 

"My  dear  friend!"  cried  the  artist,  seizing  the  other  by 


1 86  JAN  OP  THE  WINDMILL. 

the  elbow,  "you  are  just  coming  from  where  I  was  thinking 
of  going." 

"  By  all  means,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  Jan's  friend,  shak- 
ing hands  to  release  his  elbow,  "  the  master  will  be  delighted, 
and — my  time  is  not  my  own,  you  know." 

"  I  know  well,"  said  the  artist,  with  a  little  humorous 
malice.  "  It  belongs  to  others.  That  is  your  benevolence. 
So"— 

"  Come,  come ! "  laughed  the  other.  "  I'm  not  a  man  of 
leisure  like  you.  I  must  catch  the  next  salmon-colored 
omnibus." 

"  I'll  walk  with  you  to  it,  and  talk  as  we  go.  You  can't 
propose  to  run  at  your  time  of  life,  and  with  your  position 
in  the  city!  Now  tell  me,  my  good  friend,  the  boys  in  your 
Home  are  the  offscouring  of  the  streets,  aren't  they  ?  " 

"  They  are  mostly  destitute  lads,  but  they  have  never  been 
convicted  of  crime  any  more  than  yourself.  It  is  the  funda- 
mental distinction  between  our  Home  and  other  industrial 
schools.  Our  effort  is  to  save  boys  whom  destitution  has  all 
but  made  criminal.     It  is  not  a  reformatory." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  know.  But  I  was  speaking  of 
their  bodily  condition  only.  I  want  a  model,  and  should  be 
glad  to  get  it  without  the  nuisance  of  sketching  in  the 
slums.  Such  a  ragged,  pinched,  eager,  and  yet  stupid  child 
as  might  sit  homeless  between  the  black  walls  of  Newgate 
and  the  churchyard  of  St.  Sepulchre, — a  waif  of  the  richest 
and  most  benevolent  society  in  Christendom,  for  whom  the 
alternative  of  the  churchyard  would  be  the  better." 

"  Not  the  only  one,  I  trust,"  said  the  business  gentleman, 
almost  passionately.  "  I  trust  in  God,  not  the  only  alter- 
native. If  I  have  a  hope,  it  is  that  of  greater  and  more 
effective  efforts  than  hitherto  to  rescue  the  children  of  Lon- 
don from  crime." 

In  the  warmth  of  this  outburst,  he  had  permitted  a  sal- 
mon-colored omnibus  to  escape  him,  but,  being  much  too 
good  a  man  of  business  to  waste  time  in  regrets,  he  placed 
himself  at  a  convenient  point  for  catching  the  next,  and 
went  on  speaking. 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  have  another  picture  in  hand." 

"  Not  a  picture — a  pot  boiler,"  said  the  artist,  testily. 
"  Low  art — domestic  sentiment — cheap  pathos.     My  picture 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  187 

no  one  -would  look  at,  even  if  it  were  finished,  and  if  I  could 
bring  myself  to  part  with  it." 

"  Mind,  you  give  me  the  first  refusal." 

*'  Of  my  picture  ?  " 

"  Yes,  that  is,  I  mean  your  street  boy.  It  is  just  in  my 
line.  I  delight  in  your  things.  But  don't  make  it  too  pa- 
thetic, or  my  wife  won't  be  able  to  bear  it  in  the  drawing- 
room.     Your  things  always  make  her  cry." 

"That's  the  pot  boiler,"  said  the  artist;  "  I  really  wish 
you'd  look  at  my  picture,  unfinished  as  it  is.  I  should  like 
you  to  have  it.  Anybody'll  take  the  pot  boiler.  I  want  a 
model  for  the  picture  too,  and,  oddly  enough,  a  boy ;  but  one 
you  can't  provide  me  with." 

"No?  The  subject  you  say  is" — said  the  man  of  busi- 
ness, dreamily,  as  he  strove  at  the  same  time  to  make  out  if 
a  distant  omnibus  were  yellow  or  salmon-colored. 

'•  Cimabue  finding  the  boy  Giotto  drawing  on  the  sand. 
Ah!  my  friend,  can  one  realize  that  meeting?  Can  one 
picture  the  generous  glow  with  which  the  mature  and  .courtly 
artist  recognized  unconscious  genius  struggling  under  the 
form  of  a  shepherd  lad, — yearning  out  of  his  great  Italian 
eyes  over  that  glowing  landscape  whose  beauties  could  not 
be  written  in  the  sand?  Will  the  golden  age  of  the  arts 
ever  return?  We  are  hardly  moving  towards  it,  I  fear. 
For  I  have  found  a  model  for  my  Cimabue, — an  artist  too, 
and  a  true  one ;  but  no  boy  Giotto!  Still  I  should  like  you 
to  see  it.     I  flatter  myself  the  coloring  " — 

"  Salmon,"  said  the  man  of  business,  briskly.  "I  thought 
it  was  yellow.  My  dear  fellow — Hi! — take  as  many  boys 
as  you  like — To  the  City  I " 

The  conductor  of  the  salmon-colored  omnibus  touched  his 
bell,  and  the  painter  was  left  alone. 


JAN  OP  THE  WINDMILL. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

A      CHOICE      OF      VOCATIONS RECREATION      HOUR THE 

BOW-LEGGED    BOY. — DRAWING   BY    HEART— GIOTTO. 

Jan  found  favor  with  his  new  friends.  The  master's 
sharp  eyes  noted  that  the  prescribed  ablutions  seemed  both 
pleasant  and  familiar  to  the  new  boy,  and  the  superintendent 
of  the  wood-chopping  department  expressed  his  opinion  that 
Jan's  intelligence  and  dexterity  were  wasted  among  the 
fagots,  and  that  his  vocation  was  to  be  a  brush-maker  at 
least,  if  not  a  joiner. 

Of  such  trades  as  were  open  to  him  in  the  Home  Jan  in- 
clined to  cabinet-making.  It  must  be  amusing  to  dab  little 
bunches  of  bristles  so  deftly  into  little  holes  with  hot  pitch 
as  to  produce  a  li earth-brush,  but  as  a  life-work  it  does  not 
satisfy  ambition.  For  boot-making  he  felt  no  fancy,  and  the 
tailor's  shop  had  a  dash  of  corduroy  and  closeness  in  the 
atmosphere  not  grateful  to  nostrils  so  long  refreshed  by  the 
breezes  of  the  plains.  But,  when  an  elder  boy  led  him  into 
the  airy  room  of  the  cabinet-maker,  Jan  found  a  subject  of 
interest.  The  man  was  making  a  piece  of  furniture  to  order; 
the  boys  had  done  the  rough  work,  and  he  was  finishing  it. 
It  was  a  combination  of  shelves  and  cupboard,  and  was 
something  like  an  old  oak  cabinet  which  stood  in  Master 
Chuter's  parlor,  and  which,  in  Jan's  opinion,  was  both  hand- 
somer and  more  convenient  than  this.  When  the  joiner, 
amused  by  the  keen  gaze  of  Jan's  black  eyes,  asked  him 
good-naturedly  "  how  he  liked  it,"  Jan  expressed  his 
opinion,  to  illustrate  which  he  involuntarily  took  up  the  fat 
pencil  lying  on  the  bench,  and  made  a  sketch  of  Master 
Chuter's  cabinet  upon  a  bit  of  wood. 

News  spreads  with  mysterious  swiftness  in  all  communities, 
large  and  small.  Before  dinner-time,  it  was  known  through- 
out the  Home  that  the  master-joiner  had  applied  for  the  new 
boy  as  a  pupil,  and  that  he  could  draw  with  a  black-lead 
pencil,  and  set  his  betters  to  rights. 

The  master  had  passed  through  several  phases  of  feeling 
over  Jan  during  that  morning.  His  first  impression  had 
been  dispelled  by  Jan's  orderly  ways,  and  the  absence  of  any 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  189 

vagrant  restlessness  about  him.  The  joiner's  report  awoke 
a  hope  that  he  would  become  a  star  of  the  institution,  but  as 
his  acquirements  came  to  the  light,  and  he  proved  not  merely 
to  have  a  good  voice,  but  to  have  been  in  a  choir,  the  mas. 
ter's  generous  hopes  received  a  check,  and  as  the  day  passed 
on  he  became  more  and  more  convinced  that  it  was  a  case 
to  be  "  restored  to  his  friends." 

When  two  o'clock  came,  and  the  boys  were  all  out  for 
"recreation,"  Jan  had  to  endure  some  chaff  on  the  subject 
of  his  accomplishments.  But  the  banter  of  London  street 
boys  was  familiar  to  him,  and  he  took  it  in  good  part. 
When  they  found  him  good-tempered,  he  was  soon  popular, 
and  they  asked  his  history  with  friendly  curiosity. 

"  And  vot  sort  of  a  mansion  did  you  hang  out  in  ven  you 
wos  at  home?"  inquired  a  little  lad,  whose  rosy  cheeks  and 
dancing  eyes  would  have  qualified  him  to  sit  as  a  model  for 
the  hero  of  some  little  tale  of  rustic  life  and  simplicity,  but 
who  had  graduated  in  the  lowest  lore  of  the  streets  so  much 
before  he  was  properly  able  to  walk  that  he  was  bandy- 
legged in  consequence.  There  must  have  been  some  blood 
in  him  that  was  domestic  and  not  vagrant  in  its  currents,  for 
he  was  as  a  rule  one  of  the  steadiest  and  best-behaved  boys 
in  the  establishment.  Only  from  time  to  time  he  burst  out 
into  street  slang  of  the  strongest  description,  apparently  as  a 
relief  to  his  feelings.  Happily  for  the  cause  it  had  at  heart, 
the  Boys'  Home  was  guided  by  large-minded  counsels,  and 
if  the  eyes  of  the  master  were  as  the  eyes  of  Argus,  they 
could  also  wink  on  occasion.  "  Hout  with  it !  "  said  the  bow- 
legged  boy,  straddling  before  Jan.  "  If  it  wos  Buckingham 
Palace  as  you  resided  in,  make  a  clean  breast  of  it,  and 
hease  your  mind." 

"  Thee  knows  more  of  palaces  than  the  likes  of  me. 
Thee  manners  be  so  fine,"  said  Jan  ;  and  the  repartee  drew 
a  roar  of  laughter,  in  which  the  bandy-legged  boy  joined. 
"But  I've  lived  in  a  windmill,"  Jan  added,  "  and  that  be 
more  than  thee've  done,  I  fancy." 

Some  of  the  boys  had  seen  windmills,  and  some  had  not; 
and  there  was  a  strong  tendency  among  the  boys  who  had 
to  give  exaggerated,  not  to  say  totally  fictitious,  descriptions 
of  those  buildings  to  the  boys  who  had  not.  There  was 
ft,   quick,  prevailing  impressiouj   however,   that   Jan's  word, 


190  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

could  be  trusted,  and  he  was  appealed  to.  "  Take  it  off 
in  a  picter,"  said  the  bandy-legged  boy.  "We  heered  as 
you  took  off  a  sweet  offurnitur  in  the  Master's  face.  Take 
off  the  windmill,  if  you  lived  in  itv" 

There  was  a  bit  of  chalk  in  Jan's  pocket,  and  the  court- 
yard was  paved.  He  knelt  down,  and  the  boys  gathered 
round  him.  They  were  sharp  enough  to  be  sympathetic, 
and  when  he  begged  them  to  be  quiet  they  kept  a  breath- 
less silence,  which  was  broken  only  by  the  distant  roar  of 
London  outside,  and  by  the  Master's  voice  speaking  in  an 
adjoining  passage. 

"  I  can  hardly  say,  sir,  that  I  fear,  but  I  think  you'll 
find  most  of  them  look  too  hearty  and  comfortable  for  your 
purpose." 

About  Jan  the  silence  was  breathless.  The  bow-legged 
boy  literally  laid  his  hand  upon  his  mouth,  and  he  had 
better  have  laid  it  over  his  eyes,  for  they  seemed  in  danger  of 
falling  out  of  their  sockets. 

Jan  covered  his  for  a  moment,  and  then  looked  upwards. 
Back  upon  his  sensitive  memory  rolled  the  past,  like  a  re- 
turning tide  which  sweeps  everything  before  it.  Much 
clearer  than  those  roofs  and  chimney-stacks  the  windmill 
stood  against  the  sky,  with  arms  outstretched  as'  if  to  recall 
its  truant  son.  If  he  had  needed  it  to  draw  from,  it  was 
there,  plain  enough.  But  how  should  he  need  to  see  it,  on 
whose  heart  every  line  of  it  was  written  ?  He  could  have 
laid  his  hand  in  the  dark  upon  the  bricks  that  were  weather- 
stained  into  fanciful  landscapes  upon  its  walls,  and  planted 
his  feet  on  the  spot  where  the  grass  was  most  worn  down 
about  its  base. 

He  drew  with  such  power  and  rapidity  that  only  some 
awe  of  the  look  upon  his  face  could  have  kept  silence  in 
the  little  crowd  whom  he  had  forgotten.  And  when  the 
last  scrap  of  chalk  had  crumbled,  and  he  dragged  his 
blackened  finger  over  the  foreground  till  it  bled,  the 
voice  which  broke  the  silence  was  the  voice  of  a  stranger, 
who  stood  with  the  master  on  the  threshold  of  the  court- 
yard. 

Never  perhaps  was  more  conveyed  in  one  word  than  in 
that  which  he  spoke,  though  its  meaning  was  known  to 
himself  alone,  — 

«  Giotto!" 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  191 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

"  WITHOUT  CHARACTER  ?  " THE   WIDOW.  —  THE  BOW- 
LEGGED  BOY  TAKES  SERVICE. STUDIOS  AND  PAINTERS. 

"  Manage  it  as  you  like,"  the  artist  had  said  to  the 
master  of  the  Boys'  Home.  "  Lend  him,  sell  him,  appren- 
tice him,  give  him  to  me, — whichever  you  prefer.  Say  I 
want  a  boot-black  —  a  clothes-brusher  —  a  palette-setter  — 
a  bound  slave  —  or  ''an  adopted  son,  as  you  please.  The 
boy  I  must  have  :  in  what  capacity  I  get  him  is  nothing  to 
me." 

"I  am  bound  to  remind  you,  sir,"  said  the  master,  ''that 
he  was  picked  up  in  the  streets,  and  has  had  no  training, 
and  earned  no  outfit  from  us.  He  comes  to  you  without 
clothes,  without  character  " — 

"  Without  character ?"  cried  the  artist.  "Heavens  and 
earth  !  Did  you  ever  study  physiognomy  ?  Do  you  know 
any  thing  of  faces  ?  " 

"  It  is  part  of  my  duty  to  know  something  of  them  sir," 
began  the  master,  who  was  slightly  nettled. 

"  Then  don't  talk  nonsense,  my  friend,  but  send  me  the 
boy,  as  soon  as  is  consistent  with  your  rules  and  regula- 
tions." 

The  boy  was  Jan.  The  man  of  business  gave  his  consent, 
but  he  implored  his  "  impulsive  friend,"  as  he  termed  the 
artist,  not  to  ruin  the  lad  by  indulgence,  but  to  keep  him  in 
his  proper  place,  and  give  him  plenty  to  do.  In  conformity 
with  this  sensible  advice,  Jan's  first  duties  in  his  new. home 
were  to  clean  the  painter's  boots  when  he  could  find  them, 
shake  his  velveteen  coat  when  the  pockets  were  empty, 
sweep  the  studio,  clean  brushes,  and  go  errands.  The 
artist  was  an  old  bachelor,  infamously  cheated  by  the  rheu- 
matic widow  he  had  paid  to  perform  the  domestic  work  of 
his  rooms ;  and  when  this  afflicted  lady  gave  warning  on 
being  asked  for  hot  water  at  a  later  hour  than  usual,  Jan 
persuaded  the  artist  to  enforce  her  departure,  and  took  her 
place.  So  heavy  is  the  iron  weight  of  custom — when  it  takes 
the  form  of  an  elderly  and  widowed  domestic  to  a  single  gentle- 
man— that  even  Jan's  growing  influence  would  not  have  se- 


192  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

cured  her  dismissal,  had  not  the  artist  had  a  particular  reason 
for  wishing  the  boy's  practical  talents  to  be  displayed.  He 
suspected  his  business  friend  of  distrusting  them  because  of 
Jan's  artistic  genius,  and  he  was  proud  to  boast  that  he  had 
never  known  the  comfort  of  clean  rooms  and  well-cooked  food 
till  "  the  boy  Giotto  "  became  his  housekeeper. 

The  work  was  play  to  Jan  after  his  slavery  to  the  hunch- 
back, and  on  his  happiness  in  living  with  a  painter  it  is 
needless  to  dwell.  For  a  week  or  two,  the  artist  was  busy 
with  his  "pot  boiler,"  and  did  not  pay  much  attention  to 
his  new  apprentice,  and  Jan  watched  without  disturbing 
him ;  so  that  when  he  offered  to  set  the  painter's  palette, 
his  master  regarded  his  success  as  an  inspiration  of  genius, 
rather  than  as  a  result  of  habits  of  observation. 

The  painter,  though  clever  and  ambitious,  and  with  a  very 
pure  and  very  elegant  taste,  was  no  mighty  genius  himself. 
The  average  of  public  taste  in  art  is  low  enough,  but  in 
refusing  his  "  high  art "  pictures,  and  buying  his  domestic 
ones,  the  public  was  not  far  wrong.  It  must  be  confessed 
that  he  had  also  a  vein  of  indolence  in  his  nature,  and  Jan 
soon  painted  most  of  the  pot  boilers.  Another  of  his  duties 
was  to  sit  as  a  model  for  the  picture.  The  painter  sketched 
him  again  and  again,  and  was  never  quite  satisfied.  What 
the  vision  of  the  windmill  had  lit  up  in  the  depth  of  his 
black  eyes  could  not  be  recalled  to  order  in  the  painter's 
studio. 

"  I  tell  you  what  it  is,"  said  the  artist  one  day ;  "  domes- 
tic servitude  is  taking  the  poetry  out  of  you.  You're  get- 
ting fat,  Giotto  !  Understand  that  from  henceforth  I  forbid 
you  to  black  boots  or  grates,  to  brush,  dust,  wash,  cook,  or 
whatever  disturbs  the  peace  or  hinders  the  growth  of  the 
soul.  I  must  get  the  widow  back  !  "  and  the  painter  heaved 
a  deep  sigh. 

But  Jan  was  resolute  against  the  widow.  He  effected  a 
compromise.  The  bandy-legged  boy  from  the  Home  was 
taken  into  the  painter's  service,  and  Jan  made  himself  re- 
sponsible for  his  good  conduct.  He  began  by  warning  his 
vivacious  friend  that  no  freemasonry  of  common  street- 
boyhood  could  hinder  the  duty  he  owed  to  his  master  of 
protecting  his  property  and  insuring  his  comfort,  and  that 
be  must  sooner  tell  tales  of  his  friend  than  have  the  painter 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  193 

wronged.  To  this  homily  the  bandy-legged  boy  listened 
with  his  red  cheeks  artificially  distended,  and  occasional 
murmurs  of  "Crikey !  "  but  he  took  service  on  these  terms, 
and  did  Jan  no  discredit.  He  was  incorruptibly  honest,  and 
when  from  time  to  time  the  street  fever  seized  him,  and  he 
left  his  work  to  play  at  post-leaping  outside,  Jan  would 
quietly  take  his  place,  and  did  not  betray  him.  This  kind- 
ness invariably  drew  tears  of  penitence  from  the  soft-hearted 
young  vagrant,  his  freaks  grew  rarer  and  rarer,  and  he 
finally  became  as  steady  as  he  was  quick-witted. 

Jan's  duties  were  now  confined  to  the  painting-room,  and 
he  soon  became  familiar  with  the  studios  of  other  artists, 
where  his  intelligent  admiration  of  paintings  which  took  his 
fancy,  his  modesty,  his  willing  good-nature,  and  his  preco- 
cious talent  made  him  a  general  favorite. 

He  went  regularly  with  his  master  to  the  early  service  in 
the  sooty  little  church,  in  the  choir  of  which  he  was  finally 
enrolled.  And  the  man  of  business  kept  a  friendly  eye  on 
him,  and  gave  him  many  a  piece  of  sensible  and  very  practi- 
cal advice,  to  balance  the  evils  of  an  artistic  career. 

With  the  Bohemianism  of  artist-life  Jan  was  soon  as  fa- 
miliar as  with  the  Bohemianism  of  the  streets.  A  certain 
old-fashioned  gravity,  which  had  always  been  amongst  his 
characteristics,  helped  him  to  preserve  both  his  dignity  and 
modesty  in  a  manner  which  gave  the  man  of  business  great 
satisfaction.  He  might  easily  have  been  spoiled,  but  he  was 
not.  He  answered  respectfully  to  about  a  dozen  names  which 
the  vagrant  fancy  of  the  young  painters  bestowed  opon  him  : 
Jan-of-all-work — Jan  Steen — The  Flying  Dutchman — Crim- 
son Lake — Madder  Lake — and  Miller's  Thumb. 

But  his  master  called  him  Giotto. 

He  was  very  happy,  but  the  old  home  haunted  him,  and  he 
longed  bitterly  for  some  news  of  his  foster-father  and  the 
schoolmaster.  Whilst  the  terror  of  the  Cheap  Jack  was  still 
oppressing  him,  he  had  feared  to  open  any  communication 
with  the  past,  for  fear  the  wretched  couple  who  were  sup- 
posed to  be  his  parents  should  discover  and  reclaim  him.  But 
as  his  nerves  recovered  thier  tone,  as  the  horrors  of  his  life 
as  a  scree ver  faded  into  softer  tints,  as  that  boon  of  poor  hu- 
manity— forgetfulness — healed  his  wounds,  and  he  began  to 
go  about  the   streets  without  thinking  of  the  hunchback  at 


194  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

every  corner,  he  felt  more  and  more  inclined  to  risk  anything 
to  know  how  his  old  friends  fared.  There  also  grew  upon 
him  a  conviction  that  the  Cheap  Jack's  story  was  false.  He 
knew  enough  of  art  now,  and  of  the  value  of  his  own  pow- 
ers, and  of  the  struggle  for  livelihoods  in  London,  to  see  that 
it  had  been  a  very  good  speculation  to  kidnap  him.  He  had 
serious  doubts  whether  the  cart  had  been  driven  round  by 
the  mill,  and  whether  Master  Lake  had  refused  to  let  him  be 
awakened  from  his  sleep,  and  had  said  it  was,  "  All  right, 
and  he  hoped  the  lad  would  do  his  duty  to  his  good  parents." 
He  remembered,  too,  the  hunchback's  words  when  he  lay 
speechless  from  the  drugged  liquor,  and  these  raised  a  puz- 
zling question:  Why  should  "  the  nobs  "  recognize  him? 
He  had  learned  what  nobs  are.  Spelt  without  a  "  k,"  they 
are  grand  people,  and  what  had  grand  people  to  do  with  Sal's 
son? 

One  cannot  live  without  sympathy,  and  Jan  confided  the 
complexities  of  his  history  to  the  bow-legged  boy,  and  the 
interest  they  awakened  in  this  young  gentleman  could  not 
but  be  gratifying  to  his  friend.  He  kept  one  eye  closed  dur- 
ing the  story,  as  if  he  saw  the  whole  thing  {too  clearly)  at  a 
glance.  He  broke  the  thread  of  Jan's  narrative  by  comments 
which  had  no  obvious  bearing  on  the  facts,  and,  when  it  was 
ended,  he  gave  it  as  his  opinion  that  certain  penny  romances 
which  he  named  were  a  joke  to  it. 

"  Oh,  my  !  what  a  pity  we  can't  employ  a  detective  !  "  he 
said.  "  Whoever  knowed  a  young  projidy  find  his  noble  re- 
lations without  a  detective?  But  never  mind,  Jan.  I  knows 
their  ways.  I'm  up  to  their  dodges.  Fust  of  all,  you  makes 
up  your  mind  deep  down  in  your  inside,  and  then  you  says 
nothing  to  nobody,  but  follows  it  up.     Fol-lows  it  up  !  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  follow,"  said  Jan  ;  "  and  how  can 
I  make  up  my  mind,  when  I  know  nothing?" 

"  That's  just  where  it  is,"  said  his  friend  ;  "  if  you  knowed 
everything,  wot  'ud  be  the  use  of  coming  the  detective  tip, 
and  making  it  up  in  your  inside  ?  " 

The  bow-legged  boy  had  made  it  up  in  his.  He  had  de- 
cided that  Jan  was  a  nobleman  in  disguise,  and  that  his 
father  was  a  duke,  or  a  "jook,"  as  he  called  him.  Jan's  ac- 
tive imagination  could  not  quite  resist  the  influence  of  this 
romance,  and  he  lay  awake  at  night  patching  together  the 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  195 

hunchback's  reference  to  the  nobs,  and  the  incredulous  glance 
of  the  dark-eyed  gentleman  who  had  given  him  the  half- 
pence, and  who  was  certainly  a  nob  himself.  And  never  did 
he  leave  the  house  on  an  errand  for  the  painter  that  the  bow- 
legged  boy  did  not  burst  forth,  dish-cloth  or  dirty  boots  in 
hand,  from  some  unexpected  quarter,  and  adjure  him  to 
"  look  out  for  the  jook." 

It  was  a  lovely  afternoon  when,  by  his  friend's  advice,  Jan 
betook  himself  to  the  Park,  that  the  nobs  might  have  that 
opportunity  of  recognizing  him  which  the  wide-mouthed 
woman  had  feared.  He  had  washed  his  face  very  clean,  and 
brushed,  his  old  jacket  with  trembling  hands,  and  the  bow- 
legged  boy  had  tied  a  spotted  scarf,  that  had  been  given  to 
himself  by  a  stableman  in  the  mews  opposite,  round  Jan's 
neck  in  what  he  called  •'  a  gent's  knot,"  and  the  poor  child 
went  to  seek  his  fate  with  a  beating  heart. 

There  were  nobs  enough.  Round  and  pound  they  came, 
in  all  the  monotony  of  a  not  very  exhilarating  amusement. 
The  crowd  was  so  great  that  the  carriages  crawled  rather 
than  drove,  and  Jan  could  see  the  people  well.  Many  a 
lovely  face,  set  in  a  soft  frame  of  delicate  hue,  caught  his  ar- 
tistic eye,  and  he  watched  for  and  recognized  it  again.  But 
only  a  passing  glance  of  languid  curiosity  met  his  eager  gaze 
in  return.  Not  a  nob  recognized  him.  But  a  policeman 
looked  at  him  as  if  he  did,  and  Jan  crept  away. 

When  he  got  home,  he  found  household  matters  at  a  stand- 
still, for  the  bow-legged  boy  had  been  tearfully  employed  in 
thinking  how  Jan  would  despise  his  old  friends  when  the 
"jook"  had  acknowledged  him,  and  he  had  become  a  nob. 
And  as  Jan  set  matters  to  rights,  he  resolved  that  he  would 
not  go  to  the  Park  again  to  look  for  relatives. 


CHAPTER   XXXVI. 

THE  MILLER'S  LETTER A  NEW  POT  BOILER  SOLD.   - 

Jan  was  very  happy,  and  the  brief  dream  of  the  "jook  " 
was  over,  but  his  heart  clung  to  his  old  home.  If  love  and 
care,  if  tenderness  in  sickness  and  teaching  in  health,  are 
parental  qualities,   why  should  he  seek  another  parent  than 

■■'■.:  •  1 


ig6  JAN  OP  THE  WINDMILL. 

Master  Swift  ?  And  had  he  not  a  foster-father  to  whom  he 
was  bound  by  all  those  filial  ties  of  up-bringing  from  infancy, 
and  of  a  common  life,  a  common  trade,  and  common  joys 
and  sorrows  in  the  past,  such  as  could  bind  him  to  no  other 
father  ? 

He  begged  a  bit  of  paper  from  the  painter,  and  wrote  a 
letter  to  Master  Lake,  which  would  have  done  more  credit 
to  the  schoolmaster's  instructions  had  it  been  less  blotted 
with  tears.  He  besought  his  foster-father  not  to  betray  him 
to  the  Cheap  Jack,  and  he  inquired  tenderly  after  the  school- 
master and  Rufus. 

The  windmiller  was  no  great  scholar,  as  was  shown  by  his 
reply  :_ 

"  My  dear  Jan, 

"  Your  welcome  letter  to  hand,  and  I  do  hope,  my  dear 
Jan,  It  finds  you  well  as  it  leave  me  at  present.  I  be  mortal 
bad  with  a  cough,  and  your  friends  as  searched  everywhere, 
and  dragged  every  place  for  you,  encluding  the  plains  for 
twenty  mile  round  and  down  by  the  watermill.  That  Cheap 
John  be  no  more  your  vather  nor  mine,  an  e'd  better  not 
show  his  dirty  vace  yearabouts  after  all  he  stole,  but  your 
poor  mother,  she  was  alius  took  in  by  him,  but  she  said  with 
her  own  mouth,  that  woman  be  no  more  the  child's  mother, 
and  never  wos  a  mother,  and  your  mother  knowed  wots  wot, 
poor  zowl !  And  I'm  glad,  my  dear  Jan,  you  be  doing  well 
in  a  genteel  line,  though  I  did  hope  you'd  take  to  the  mill; 
but  work  is  slack,  and  I'm  not  wot  I  wos,  and  I  do  miss 
Master  Swift.  He  had  a  stroke  after  you  left,  and  confined 
to  the  house,  so  I  will  conclude,  my  dear  Jan,  and  go  down 
and  rejoice  his  heart  to  hear  you  be  alive.  I'd  main  like  to 
see  you,  Jan,  my  dear,  and  so  for  sartin  would  he  and  all 
enquiring  friends;  and  I  am  till  deth  your  loving  vather,  or 
as  good,  and  I  shan't  grudge  you  if  so  be  you  finds  a  better. 

"  Abel  Lake." 

"  P.  S.  I'd  main  like  to  see  your  vace  again,  Jan,  my 
dear." 

Jan  sobbed  so  bitterly  in  reading  the  postscript  that,  after 
vain  attempts  to  console  him  by  chaff,  the  bow-legged  boy 
wept  from  sympathy. 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  ,     197 

As  to  the  painter,  the  whole  letter  so  caught  his  capri- 
cious fancy  that  he  was  for  ever  questioning  Jan  as  to  the 
details  of  his  life  in  that  out-of-the-workl  district  where  the 
purest  breath  of  heaven  turned  the  sails  of  the  windmill,  and 
where  the  miller  took  payment  for  his  work  "in  kind." 

"  It  must  be  a  wonderful  spot,  Giotto,"  said  he  ;  "  and,  if 
I  were  richer,  just  now  we'd  go  down  together,  and  paint 
sunsets,  and  see  your  friends."  And  he  walked  up  and 
down  the  studio,  revolving  his  new  caprice,  whilst  Jan  tried 
to  think  if  any  thing  were  likely  to  bring  money  into  his 
master's  pocket  before  long.  Suddenly  the  artist  seized  a 
sketch  that  was  lying  near,  and,  turning  it  over,  began  one 
on  the  other  side,  questioning  Jan  as  he  drew.  "  What  do 
old  country  wives  dress  in  down  yonder  ? — What  did  you 
wear  in  the  mill  ? — Where  does  the  light  come  from  in  a 
round-house,"  &c. 

Presently  he  flung  it  to  Jan,  and,  in  answer  to  the  boy's  cry 
of  admiration,  growled  "  Ay,  ay.  You  must  do  what  you  can 
now,  for  every  after-touch  of  mine  will  spoil  it.  There  are 
hundreds  of  men,  Giotto,  whose  sketches  are  good,  and  their 
paintings  daubs.  But  it  is  only  the  sketches  of  great  men 
that  sell.  The  public  likes  canvas  and  linseed  oil  for  its 
money,  where  small  reputations  are  concerned." 

The  sketch  was  of  a  peep  into  the  round-house.  Jan,  toll- 
dish  in  hand,  with  a  quaint  business  gravity,  was  met  by  a 
dame  who  was  just  raising  her  old  back  after  letting  down 
her  sack  of  gleanings,  with  garrulous  good-humor  in  her 
blinking  eyes  and  withered  face. 

"Chiaroscuro  good,"  dictated  the  painter;  "execution 
sketchy  ;  coloring  quiet,  to  be  in  keeping  with  the  place  and 
subject,  but  pure.  You  know  the  scene  better  than  I,  so 
work  away,  Giotto.  Motto — '  Will  ye  pay  or  toll  it, 
mother  ?  '  Price  twenty-five  guineas.  Take  it  to  What's- 
his-name's,  and  if  it  sells  we'll  go  to  Arcadia,  Giotto  mio ! 
The  very  thought  of  those  breezes  is  as  quinine  to  my  lan- 
guid faculties  ! " 

Jan  worked  hard  at  the  new  "  pot  boiler."  The  artist 
painted  the  boy's  figure  himself,  and  Jan  did  most  of  the 
rest.  The  bow-legged  boy  stooped  in  a  petticoat  as  a  model 
for  the  old  woman,  murmuring  at  intervals,  "Oh,  my,  here 
is  a  game ! "  and,  when  the  painter  had  left  the  room,  his 


198    „  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

grave  speculations  as  to  whether  the  withered  face  of  th« 
dame  were  a  good  likeness  of  his  own  chubby  cheeks  made 
Jan  laugh  till  he  could  hardly  hold  his  palette.  It  was  done 
at  last,  and  Jan  took  it  to  the  picture-dealer's. 

The  poor  boy  could  hardly  keep  out  of  the  street  where 
the  picture -dealer  lived.  One  afternoon,  as  he  was  hanging 
about  the  window,  the  business  gentleman  came  by  and 
asked  kindly  after  his  welfare.  Jan  was  half  ashamed  of  the 
hope  with  which  he  told  the  tale  of  the  pot  boiler. 

"And  you  did  some  of  it?"  said  the  business  gentleman, 
peering  in  through  his  spectacles.  <■ 

"  Only  the  painting,  sir,  not  the  design,"  said  Jan. 

"  And  you  want  very  much  to  go  and  see  your  old 
home  ?  " 

"  I  do,  sir,"  said  Jan. 

The  business  gentleman  put  his  gold  spectacles  into  their 
case,  and  laid  his  hand  on  Jan's  shoulder.  "  I  am  not  much 
of  a  judge  of  genius,"  said  he,  "but  if  you  have  it,  and  if 
you  live  to  make  a  fortune  by  it,  remember,  my  boy,  that 
there  is  no  luxury  which  money  puts  in  a  man's  power  like 
the  luxury  of  helping  others."  With  which  he  stepped 
briskly  into  the  picture-dealer's. 

And  half  an  hour  afterwards  Jan  burst  into  the  painter's 
studio,  crying,  "It's  sold,  sir  !  " 

"  Sold !  "  shouted  the  painter,  in  boyish  glee.  "  Hooray ! 
Where's  that  rascal  Bob  ?  Oh,  I  know  !  I  sent  him  for 
the  beer.  Giotto,  my  dear  fellow,  I  have  some  shooting- 
boots  somewhere,  if  you  can  find  them,  and  a  tourist's  knap- 
sack, and  " — 

But  Jan  had  started  to  find  the  boots,  and  the  bow-legged 
boy,  who  had  overheard  the  news  as  he  left  the  house, 
rushed  up  the  street,  with  his  head  down,  crying,  "It's  sold ! 
it's  sold  !  "  and,  as  he  ran,  he  jostled  against  a  man  in  a 
white  apron,  carrying  a  pot  of  green  paint  to  some  area 
railings. 

"  Wot's  sold?  "  said  he,  testily,  as  he  recovered  his  balance. 

"You  a  painter,  and  don't  know?"  said  the  rosy-cheeked 
boy.  "Oh,  my!  Wot's  sold?  Why,  I'm  sold,  and  it's 
sold.  That  walable  picter  I  wos  about  to  purchase  for  my 
mansion  in  Piccadilly."  And,  feigning  to  burst  into  a  tor- 
rent of  tears,  he  darted  round  the  corner  and  into  the  public- 
bouse. 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  199 

CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

SUNSHINE    AFTER   STORM. 

It  had  been  a  wet  morning.  The  heavy  rain-clouds 
rolled  over  the  plains,  hanging  on  this  side  above  the  hori- 
zon as  if  in  an  instant  they  must  fall  and  crush  the  solid 
earth,  and  passing  away  on  that  side  in  dark,  slanting  veils 
of  shower ;  giving  to  the  vast  monotony  of  the  wide  field 
of  view  that  strange  interchange  of  light  and  shadow,  gleam 
and  gloom,  which  makes  the  poetry  of  the  plains. 

The  rain  had  passed.  The  gray  mud  of  the  chalk  roads 
dried  up  into  white  dust  almost  beneath  the  travellers'  feet 
as  they  came  out  again  after  temporary  shelter  ;  and  that 
brightest,  tenderest  smile  with  which,  on  such  days,  the  sun 
makes  evening  atonement  for  his  absence,  shone  and  sparkled, 
danced  and  glowed  from  the  windmill  to  the  water-meads. 
It  reopened  the  flowers,  and  drew  fragrant  answer  from  the 
meadow-sweet  and  the  bay-leaved  willow.  It  made  the 
birds  sing,  and  the  ploughboy  whistle,  and  the  old  folk  tod- 
dle into  their  gardens  to  smell  the  herbs.  It  cherished  silent 
satisfaction  on  the  bronze  face  of  Rufus  resting  on  his  paws, 
and  lay  over  Master  Swift's  wan  brow  like  the  aureole  of 
some  austere  saint  canonized  just  on  this  side  the  gates  of 
Paradise. 

The  simile  is  not  inapt,  for  the  coarse  and  vigorous  feat- 
ures of  the  schoolmaster  had  been  refined  to  that  peculiar 
nobleness  which,  perhaps,  the  sharp  tool  of  suffering — used 
to  its  highest  ends — can  alone  produce.  And  the  smile  of 
patience,  like  a  victor's  wreath,  lay  now  where  hot  passions 
and  imperious  temper  had  once  struggled  and  been  over- 
come. 

The  schoolmaster  was  paralyzed  in  his  lower  limbs,  and 
he  sat  in  a  wheel-chair  of  his  own  devising,  which  he  could 
projiel  with  his  own  hands.  The  agonizing  anxiety  and  sus- 
pense which  followed  Jan's  disappearance  had  broken  him 
down,  and  this  was  the  end.  Rufus  was  still  his  only  house- 
keeper, but  a  woman  from  the  village  came  in  to  give  him 
necessary  help. 

"And  it  be  'most  like  waiting  upon  a  angel,"  said  she, 


2oo  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

This  woman  had  gone  for  the  night,  and  Master  Swift  sat 
in  his  invalid  chair  in  the  little  porch,  where  he  could  touch 
the  convolvulus  bells  with  his  hand,  and  see  what  some  old 
pupil  of  his  had  done  towards  "  righting  up  "  the  garden. 
It  was  an  instance  of  that  hardly  earned  grace  of  patience 
in  him  that  lie  did  not  vex  himself  to  see  how  sorely  the 
garden  suffered  by  his  helplessness. 

Not  without  cause  was  the  evening  smile  of  sunlight 
reflected  on  Master  Swift's  lips.  Between  the  fingers  of  a 
hand  lying  on  his  lap  lay  Jan's  letter  to  announce  that  he 
and  the  artist  were  coming  to  the  cottage,  and  in  intervals  of 
reading  and  re-reading  it  the  schoolmaster  spouted  poetry, 
and  Rufus  wagged  a  sedately  sympathetic  tail. 

"  How  fresh,  O  Lord,  how  sweet  and  clean 

Are  Thy  returns!  even  as  the  flowers  in  the  spring; 
To  which,  besides  their  own  demean, 
The  late  past  frosts  tributes  of  pleasure  bring. 
Grief  melts  away 
Like  snow  in  May, 
As  if  there  were  no  such  cold  thing." 

And,  waving  his  hand  after  the  old  manner  towards  the 
glowing  water-meadows,  he  went  on  with  increasing  em- 
phasis : — 

"  Who  would  thought  my  shrivelled  heart 
Could  have  recovered  greennesse  ?" 

Perhaps  Rnfus  felt  himself  bound  to  answer  what  had  a  tone 
of  appeal  in  it,  or  perhaps  some  strange  sympathy,  not  with 
Master  Swift,  began  already  to  disturb  him.  He  rose 
and  knocked  up  the  hand  in  which  the  letter  lay  with  his 
long  nose,  and  wandered  restlessly  about,  and  then  settled 
down  again  with  his  eyes  towards  the  garden-gate. 

The  old  man  sat  still.  The  evening  breeze  stirred  his  white 
hair,  and  he  drank  in  the  scents  drawn  freshly  from  field 
and  flowers  after  the  rain,  and  they  were  like  balm  to  him. 
As  he  sat  up,  his  voice  seemed  to  recover  its  old  power,  and 
he  clasped  his  hands  together  over  Jan's  letter,  and  went 
on : — 

"  And  now  in  age  I  bud  again, 

After  so  many  deaths  I  live  .tud  write; 
I  once  more  smell  the  dew  and  rain, 
And  relish  versing:  Oh  my  only  Light! 
It  cannot  he 
Thnl"  I   nil  he 
On  wllPih  Thy  tempests  fell  all  night! " 


J  AN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  2ci 

So  far  Mr.  George  Herbert;  but  the  poem  was  never  fin- 
ished, for  Rufus  jumped  up  with  a  cry,  and  after  standing 
for  a  moment  with  stiffened  limbs,  and  muffled  whines,  as  if 
he  could  not  believe  his  own  glaring  yellow  eyes,  he  burst 
away  with  tenfold  impetus,  and  dragged,  and  tore,  and 
pulled,  and  all  but  carried  Jan  to  the  schoolmaster's  feet. 

And  the  painter  walked  away  down  the  garden,  and  stood 
looking  lone  over  the  water-meadows. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

A     PAINTER'S     EDUCATION MASTER     CHUTER'S      PORT A 

FAREWELL  FEAST THE  SLEEP  OF  THE  JUST. 

"  I  hope,  Jan,"  said  Master  Swift,  "  that  the  gentleman 
will  overlook  my  Avant  of  respect  towards  himself,  in  con- 
sideration of  what  it  was  to  me  to  see  your  face  again." 

"Don't  distress  me  by  speaking  of  it,  Mr.  Swift,"  said  the 
painter,  taking  his  hand,  and  sitting  down  beside  him  in  the 
porch. 

As  he  returned  the  artist's  friendly  grasp,  the  schoolmaster 
scanned  his  face  with  some  of  the  old  sharpness.  "  Sir," 
said  he,  "  I  beg  you  to  forgive  my  freedom.  I'm  a  rough 
man  with  a  rough  tongue,  which  I  could  never  teach  to  speak 
the  feelings  of  my  heart ;  but  I  humbly  thank  you,  sir,  for 
your  goodness  to  this  boy." 

"  It's  a  very  selfish  kind  of  goodness  at  present,  Mr.  Swift, 
and  I  fancy  some  day  the  obligation  of  the  acquaintance  will 
be  on  my  side." 

"  Jan,"  said  the  schoolmaster,  "  take  Rufus  wi'  ye,  and  run 
that  errand  I  telled  ye.  Rufus'll  carry  your  basket."  When 
they  had  gone,  he  turned  earnestly  to  the  painter. 

"  Sir,  I'm  speaking  to  ye  out  of  my  ignorance  and  my 
anxiety.  Ye  want  the  lad  to  be  a  painter.  Will  he  be  a 
great  painter  ?  I'm  reminding  you  of  what  ye'll  know  better 
than  me  (though  not  by  yourself,  for  Jan  tells  me  you're  a 
grand  artist),  that  a  man  may  have  the  ambition  and  the  love, 
and  some  talent  for  an  art,  and  yet  be  just  without  that 
divine  spark  which  the  gods  withhold.     Sir,  God  forbid  that 


262  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

I  should  undervalue  the  pure  pleasure  of  even  that  little 
gift ;  but  it's  ill  for  a  lad  when  he  Las  just  that  much  of  an 
art  to  keep  him  from  a  thrifty  trade — and  no  mftre." 

The  painter  replied  as  earnestly  as  Master  Swift  had 
spoken, — 

•'  Jan's  estimate  of  me  is  weaker  than  his  judgment  in  art 
is  wont  to  be.  I  speak  to  understanding  ears,  and  you  will 
know  that  I  have  some  true  feeling  for  my  art,  when  I  tell 
you  that  I  know  enough  to  know  that  I  shall  never  be  a  great 
painter  ;  and  it  will  help  you  to  put  confidence  in  my  assurance 
that,  if  he  lives,  Jan  will" 

Deep  emotion  kept  the  old  man  silent.  It  was  a  mixed 
feeling, — first,  intense  pride  and  pleasure,  and  then  a  pang  of 
disappointment.  Had  he  not  been  the  first  to  see  genius  in 
the  child  ?  Had  he  not  built  upon  him  one  more  ambition 
for  himself, — the  ambition  of  training  the  future  great  man  ? 
And  now  another  had  taken  his  office. 

"  You  look  disappointed,"  said  the  artist. 

"It  is  the  vile  selfishness  in  me,  sir.  I  had  hoped  the 
boy's  gifts  would  have  been  what  I  could  have  trained  at  my 
own  hearth.  It  is  only  one  more  wilful  fancy,  once  more 
thwarted." 

"Selfish  I  am  sure  it  is  not!"  said  the  painter,  hotly; 
"  and  as  to  such  benevolence  being  thwarted  as  a  sort  of 
punishment  for  I  don't  know  what,  I  believe  nothing  of  the 
kind." 

"  You  don't  know,  sir,"  said  the  old  man,  firmly.  "  Not 
that  I'm  speaking  of  the  Lord's  general  dealings.  There  are 
tender,  gentle  souls,  I  know  well,  who  seem  only  to  grow  the 
purer  and  better  for  having  the  desire  of  their  eyes  granted 
to  them  ;  but  there  are  others  whom,  for  their  own  good,  the 
Father  of  all  sees  needful  to  chasten  to  the  end." 

"  My  experience  lies  in  another  direction,"  said  the  painter, 
impetuously.  "  With  what  awe  do  you  suppose  indolent  men, 
whose  easy  years  of  self-indulgent  life  have  been  broken  by 
no  real  calamity,  look  upon  others  on  whose  heads  blow  falls 
after  blow,  though  their  existence  is  an  hourly  struggle 
towards  perfection  ?  There  are  some  stagnant  pools  whose 
peace  the  Angel  never  disturbs.  Does  God,  who  takes 
pleasure  in  perfecting  the  saint  and  pardoning  the  sinner, 
forget  some  of  us  because  we  are  not  worth  remembering  ?" 


yAN  OP  THE  WINDMILL.  lo% 

"  He  forgets  none  of  us,  my  dear  sir,"  said  the  school- 
master, "  and  He  draws  us  to  Himself  at  different  times,  and 
by  different  *roads.  I  wanted  to  be  the  child's  teacher,  but 
He  lias  chosen  you,  and  will  bless  ye  in  the  work." 

The  painter  drove  his  hands  through  his  bushy  hair,  and 
spoke  more  vehemently  than  before. 

"/his  teacher,  and  not  you?  My  good  friend,  I  at  least 
am  the  belter  judge  of  what  makes  a  painter's  education.  Is 
the  man  who  shows  a  Giotto  how  to  use  this  brush,  or  mix 
that  paint,  to  be  called  his  teacher  ?  No,  not  for  teaching 
him,  forsooth,  what  he  would  have  learned  of  anybody,  every- 
body, nobody,  somehow,  anyhow,  or  done  just  as  well  with- 
out. But  the  man  who  taught  him  to  work  as  a  matter  of 
principle,  and  apart  from  inclination  (a  lesson  which  not  all 
geniuses  learn);  the  man  who  fostered  the  love  of  Nature  in 
him,  and  the  spirit  of  poetry, — qualities  without  which 
draughtsmanship  and  painting  had  better  not  be  the  man 
who  by  example  and  precept  led  him  to  find  satisfaction  in 
duty  done,  and  happiness  in  simple  pleasures  and  domestic 
affections  ;  the  man  who^go  fixed  these  high  and  pure  lessons 
in  his  mind,  at  its  most  susceptible  age,  that  the  foulest  dens 
of  London  could  not  corrupt  him  ;  the  man  whose  beloved 
and  reverenced  face  would  rise  up  in  judgment  against  him 
if  he  could  ever  hereafter  degrade  his  art  to  be  a  pander  of 
vice,  or  a  mere  trick  of  the  workshop ; — this  man,  Master 
Swift,  has  been  the  painter's  schoolmaster  !  " 

Master  Swift  was  not  accustomed  to  betray  emotion,  but 
his  nerves  were  less  strong  than  they  had  been,  and  self-con- 
trol was  more  difficult,  and  with  his  horny  hands  he  hid  the 
cheeks  down  which  tears  of  gratified  pride  would  force  their 
way. 

He  had  not  found  voice  to  speak,  when  Rufus  appeared  at 
the  gate  with  one  basket,  followed  by  Jan  and  the  little  inn- 
keeper with  another.  Why  Master  Chuter  had  come,  and 
why  Jan  was  looking  so  particularly  well  satisfied,  must  be 
explained. 

Whilst  the  painter  was  still  gazing  across  the  water- 
meadows,  Master  Swift,  who  was  the  soul  of  hospitality,  had 
told  Jan  where  to  find  a  few  shillings  in  a  certain  drawer, 
and  had  commissioned  him  to  lay  these  out  in  the  where- 
withal for  an  evening  meal.     Jan  had  had  some  anxiety  in 


2&L  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

connection  with  the  duty  intrusted  to  him.  Firstly,  he  well 
knew  that  the  few  shillings  were  what  the  schoolmaster  must 
depend  on  for  that  week's  living.  Secondly,  though  it  was 
his  old  friend's  all,  it  was  a  sum  very  inadequate  to  provide 
such  a  meal  as  Jan  would  have  liked  to  set  before  the  painter. 
At  his  age,  children  are  very  sensitive  on  behalf  of  their 
grown-up  friends,  and  like  to  maintain  the  credit  of  home. 
The  provoking  point  was  that  Jan  had  plenty  of  pocket- 
money,  with  which  he  could  have  supplied  deticiencies,  had 
he  dared ;  for  the  painter,  besides  buying  him  an  outfit  for 
the  journey,  had  liberally  rewarded  him  for  his  work  at  the 
pot  boiler.  But  Jan  knew  the  pride  of  Master  Swift's  heart 
too  well  to  venture  to  add  a  half  penny  to  his  money,  or  to 
spend  a  half  penny  less  than  all. 

It  was  whilst  he  was  going  with  an  anxious  countenance 
towards  the  villiage  shop  that  Master  Chuter  met  him  with 
open  arms.  The  little  innkeeper  was  genuinely  delighted 
to  see  him  ;  and  the  news  of  his  arrival  having  spread,  several 
old  friends  (including  "  Willum"  Smith)  were  waiting  for 
him,  about  the  yardway  of  the  'Heart  of  Oak.  When  the 
innkeeper  discovered  Jan's  errand,  he  insisted  on  packing  up  a 
prime  cut  of  bacon,  some  new-laid  eggs,  and  a  bottle  of 
"  crusty  "  old  port,  such  as  the  squires  drank  at  election  din- 
ners, to  take  to  the  schoolmaster.  Jan  was  far  too  glad  of 
this  seasonahle  addition  to  the  feast  to  suggest  doubts  of  its 
acceptance ;  indeed,  he  ventured  on  a  hint  about  a  possible 
lack  of  wine-glasses,  which  Master  Chuler  quickly  took,  and 
soon  filled  up  his  basket  with  ancient  glasses  on  bloated  legs, 
a  clean  table-cloth,  and  so  forth. 

"  We  needn't  say  any  thing  about  the  glasses,"  suggested 
Jan,  as  they  drew  near  the  cottage. 

Master  Chuter  winked  the  little  eye  buried  in  his  fat  left 
cheek. 

"  I  knows  the  schoolmaster,  Jan.  He  be  mortal  proud  ; 
and  I  wouldn't  offend  he,  sartinly  not,  Jan.  But  Master 
Swift  and  me  have  seen  a  deal  of  each  other  since  you  left, 
and  he've  tasted  this  port  before,  when  he  were  so  bad,  and 
he'll  not  take  it  amiss  from  an  old  friend." 

Master  Chuter  was  right.  The  schoolmaster  only  thanked 
him  heartily,  and  pressed  him  to  remain.     But  the  little  inn- 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  205 

keeper,  bustling  round  the  table  with  professional  solicitude, 
declined  the  invitation. 

"  I  be  obliged  to  'ee  all  the  same,  Master  Swift.  But  I 
hope  I  knows  better  manners  than  to  intrude  on  you  and 
Jan  just  now,  let  alone  a  gentleman  on  whom  I  shall  have 
pleasure  in  wraiting  at  the  Heart  of  Oak.  There  be  beds, 
sir,  at  your  service  and  Jan's,  and  well  aired  they  be.  And 
I'll  be  proud  to  show  you  the  sign,  sir,  painted  by  that  boy 
when  he  were  an  infant,  as  I  may  say.  But  I  knowed  what 
was  in  un.  Master  Swift  can  bear  me  witness.  '  Mark  my 
words,'  says  I,  'the  boy  Jan  '11  be  'most  as  good  as  a  sign- 
painter  yet.'  And  I  do  think  a  will.   But  you  knows  best,  sir." 

"  I  feel  quite  convinced  that  he  will,"  said  the  painter, 
gravely. 

Whilst  Master  Chuter  and  the  artist  thus  settled  Jan's 
career,  he  cooked  the  eggs  and  bacon ;  and  when  Master 
Swift  had  propelled  himself  to  the  table,  and  the  others 
(including  Rufus)  had  taken  their  seats,  the  innkeeper  drew 
cork,  dusted  the  bottle-mouth,  and  filled  the  fat-legged  wine- 
glasses ;  then,  throwing  a  parting  glance  over  the  arrange- 
ments of  the  table,  he  withdrew. 

Jan's  feftrs  for  the  credit  of  his  home,  his  anxieties  as  to 
the  effect  of  the  frugal  living  of  his  old  friends  upon  the 
more  luxurious  taste  of  his  new  patron,  were  very  needless. 
The  artist  was  delighted  with  every  thing,  and  when  he  said 
that  he  had  never  tasted  food  so  good  as  the  eggs  and  bacon, 
or  relished  any  wine  like  that  from  the  cellar  of  the  Heart 
of  Oak,  he  quite  believed  what  he  said.  In  truth,  none 
should  be  so  easily  pleased  as  the  artistic,  when  they  wish  to 
be  so,  since  if  "  we  receive  but  what  we  give,"  and  our  hap- 
piness in  any  thing  is  according  to  the  mind  we  bring  to  it, 
imaginative  people  must  have  an  advantage  in  being  able  to 
put  so  much  rose  color  into  their  spectacles. 

Warmed  by  the  good  cheer,  Master  Swift  discoursed  as 
vigorously  as  of  old.  With  a  graphic  power  of  narration, 
commoner  in  his  class  than  in  a  higher  one,  he  entertained 
the  artist  with  stories  of  Jan's  childhood,  and  gave  a  vivid 
picture  of  his  own  first  sight  of  him  in  the  wood.  He  did 
not  fail  to  describe  the  long  blue  coat,  the  pig-switch,  and 
the  slate,  nor  did  he  omit  to  quote  the  lines  which  so  well 


2o6  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

described  the  scene  which  the  child-genius  was  painting  in 
leaves. 

"Well  have  I  named  him  Giotto!"  said  the  artist;  "the 
shepherd  boy  drawing  on  the  sand." 

"  If  ye'd  seen  the  swineherd  painting  with  nature's  own 
tints,"  said  Master  Swift,  with  a  pertinacious  adherence  to 
his  own  view  of  tilings,  which  had  always  been  character- 
istic of  him,  "I  reckon  you'd  have  thought  he  beat  the 
shepherd  boy.  Not  that  I  could  pretend  to  be  a  judge  of 
the  painting  myself,  sir ;  what  took  my  mind  was  the  in- 
ventive energy  of  the  child.  For  maybe  fifty  men  in  a 
hundred  do  a  thing,  if  you  find  them  the  tools,  and  show 
them  the  way,  but  not  five  can  make  their  own  materials 
and  find  a  way  for  themselves." 

"Necessity's  the  mother  of  invention,"  said  the  painter, 
smiling. 

"  So  they  say,  sir,"  said  the  schoolmaster,  smartly ;  "  though, 
from  my  own  experience  of  the  shiftlessness  of  necessitous 
folk,  I've  been  tempted  to  doubt  the  truth  of  the  proverb." 

The  painter  laughed,  and  thought  of  the  Avidow,  as  Mas- 
ter Swift  added,  "  Necessity  may  be  the  mother  of  invention, 
sir,  but  the  father  must  have  had  a  good  head  on  his 
shoulders." 

The  sun  had  set,  the  moon  had  risen,  and  the  dew  mixed 
with  kindred  rain-drops  on  the  schoolmaster's  flowers,  when 
Jan  and  the  painter  bade  him  good-by.  For  half  an  hour 
past  it  had  seemed  to  the  painter  that  he  was  exhausted,  and 
spoke  languidly. 

"  Don't  get  up  till  I  come  in  the  morning,  Master  Swift," 
said  Jan  ;  "  I'll  come  early  and  dress  you." 

Rufus  walked  with  them  to  the  gate,  and  waved  his  tail 
as  Jan  kissed  his  soft  nose  and  brow,  but  then  he  went 
back  to  Master  Swift  and  lay  down  at  his  feet.  The  old 
man  had  refused  to  have  the  door  shut,  and  he  propelled 
his  chair  to  the  porch  again,  and  lay  looking  at  the  stars. 
The  moon  set,  and  the  night  grew  cold,  so  that  Rufus  tucked 
his  nose  deeper  into  his  fur,  but  Master  Swift  did  not  close 
the  door. 

The  sun  was  shining  brightly  when  Jan  came  back  in 
the  morning.     It  was  very  early.     The  convolvulus  beljs 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  207 

were  open,  but  Rufus  and  the  schoolmaster  still  slept. 
Jan's  footsteps  roused  Rufus,  who  stretched  himself  and 
yawned,  but  Master  Swift  did  not  move,  nor  answer  to 
Jan's  passionate  call  upon  his  name.  And  in  the  very 
peace  and  beauty  of  bis  countenance  Jan  saw  that  he  was 
dead. 

But  at  what  hour  the  silent  messenger  had  come — whether 
at  midnight,  or  at  cock-crow,  or  in  the  morning — there  was 
none  to  tell. 

CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

GEORGE       AGAIN THE       PAINTER'S       ADVICE.  —  "  HOME 

BREWED  "      AT      THE      HEART      OF     OAK JAN     CHANGES 

THE    PAINTER'S    MIND. 

Master  Swift's  death  was  a  great  shock  to  the  wind- 
miller,  who  was  himself  in  frail  health ;  and  Jan  gave  as 
much  time  as  he  could  to  cheering  his  foster-father. 

He  had  been  spending  an  afternoon  at  the  windmill,  and 
the  painter  had  been  sketching  the  old  church  from  the 
water-meadows,  when  they  met  on  the  little  bridge  near 
Dame  Datchett's,  and  strolled  together  to  the  Heart  of  Oak. 
Master  Chuter  met  them  at  the  door. 

"  There  be  a  letter  for  you,  Jan,"  said  he.  "  'Twas 
brought  by  a  young  varment  I  knows  well.  He  belongs  to 
them  that  keeps  a  low  public  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  and  he 
do  be  for  all  the  world  like  a  hudmedud,  without  the  useful- 
ness of  un."  The  letter  was  dirty  and  ill-written  enough  to 
correspond  to  the  innkeeper's  account  of  its  origin.  Miss° 
spellings  omitted,  it  ran  thus : — 

"Master  Jan  Ford, 

"  Sir, — If  so  be  you  wants  to  know  where  you  come 
from,  and  where  to  look  for  them  as  belongs  to  you,  come 
to  the  public  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  this  evening,  with  a  few 
pounds  in  your  pocket  to  open  the  hips  of  them  as  knows. 
But  fair  play,  mind.  Gearge  bean't  such  a  vool  as  a  looks, 
and  cart-horses  won't  draw  it  out  of  un,  if  you  sets  on  the 
police.  Don't  you  be  took  in  by  that  cusnashun  old  rascal 
Cheap   John,     Ton  may   hold  your   head   as  high  as  the, 


*o8  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

Squire  yet,  if  you  makes  it  worth  the  while  of  One  who 
knows.  I  always  was  fond  of  you,  Jan,  my  dear.  Keep  it 
dark." 

The  painter  decided  to  accept  the  invitation ;  but  when 
George  Sannel's  face  loomed  out  of  the  smoke  of  the  dingy 
little  kitchen,  all  the  terrors  of  his  childhood  seemed  to 
awake  again  in  Jan.  The  face  looked  worn  and  hungry, 
and  alarmed ;  but  it  was  the  face  of  the  miller's  man.  In 
truth,  he  had  deserted  from  his  regiment,  and  was  in  hiding ; 
but  of  this  Jan  and  his  master  knew  nothing. 

If  George's  face  bore  some  tokens  of  change,  he  seemed 
otherwise  the  same  as  of  old.  Cunning  and  stupidity,  dis- 
trust and  obstinacy,  joined  with  unscrupulous  greed,  still 
marked  his  loutish  attempts  to  overreach.  Indeed,  his  surly 
temper  would  have  brought  the  conference  to  an  abrupt  end 
but  for  the  interference  of  the  girl  at  the  inn.  She  had 
written  the  letter  for  him,  and  seemed  to  take  an  interest  in 
his  fate  which  it  is  hardly  likely  that  he  deserved.  She 
acted  as  mediator,  and  the  artist  was  all  the  more  disposed 
to  credit  her  assurance  that  "  Gearge  did  know  a  deal  about 
the  young  gentleman,  and  should  tell  it  all,"  because  her 
appearance  was  so  very  picturesque.  She  did  good  service, 
when  George  began  to  pursue  his  old  policy  of  mixing  some 
lies  with  the  truth  he  told,  by  calling  him  to  account.  Nor 
was  she  daunted  by  his  threatening  glances.  "  It  be  no 
manners  of  use  thee  looking  at  me  like  that,  Gearge  Sannel," 
said  she,  folding  her  arms  in  a  defiant  attitude,  which  the 
painter  hastily  committed  to  memory.  "  Haven't  I  give  my 
word  to  the  gentleman  that  he  should  hear  a  straight  tale  ? 
And  it  be  all  to  your  advantage  to  tell  it.  You  wants 
money,  and  the  gentleman  wants  the  truth.  It  be  no  mortal 
use  to  you  to  make  up  a  tale,  beyond  annying  the  gentle- 
man." 

Under  pressure,  therefore,  George  told  all  that  he  knew 
himself,  and  what  he  had  learned  from  the  Cheap  Jack's 
wife,  and  part  of  the  purchase-money  of  the  pot  boiler  was 
his  reward. 

Master  Lake  confirmed  his  account  of  Jan's  first  coming 
to  the  mill.  He  took  the  liveliest  interest  in  his  foster-son's 
fate,  but  he  thought,  with  the  artist,  that  there  Avas  little 
V  satisfaction "  to  be  got  out  of  trying  to  trace  Jan's  real 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  309 

parentage.  It  was  the  painter's  deliberate  opinion,  and  lie 
impressed  it  upon  Jan,  as  they  sat  together  in  Master 
Chuter's  parlor. 

"  My  dear  Giotto,  I  do  hope  you  are  not  building  much 
on  hopes  of  a  new  home  and  new  relatives.  If  all  we  have 
heard  is  true,  your  mother  is  dead  ;  and,  if  your  father  is  not 
dead  too,  he  has  basely  deserted  you.  You  have  to  make  a 
name,  not  to  seek  one ;  to  confer  credit,  not  to  ask  for  it. 
And  I  don't  say  this,  Giotto,  to  make  you  vain,  but  to  recall 
your  responsibilities,  and  to  dispel  useless  dreams.  Believe 
me,  my  boy,  your  true  mother,  the  tender  nurse  of  your 
infancy,  sleeps  in  the  sacred  shadow  of  this  dear  old  church. 
It  is  your  part  to  make  her  name,  and  the  name  of  your 
respectable  foster-father,  famous  as  your  own ;  to  render 
your  windmill  as  highly  celebrated  as  Rembrandt's,  and  to 
hang  late  laurels  of  fame  on  the  grave  of  your  grand  old 
schoolmaster.  Ah  !  my  child,  I  know  well  that  the  ductile  ar- 
tistic nature  takes  shape  very  early.  The  coloring  of  child- 
hood stains  every  painter's  canvas  who  paints  from  the  heart. 
You  can  never  call  any  other  place  home,  Giotto,  but  this 
idyllic  corner  of  the  world  ! " 

It  will  be  seen  that  the  painter's  rose-colored  spectacles 
were  still  on  his  nose.  Every  thing  delighted  him.  He  was 
never  weary  of  sketching  garrulous  patriarchs  in  snowy 
smocks  under  rickety  porches.  He  said  that  in  an  age  of 
criticism  it  was  quite  delightful  to  hear  Daddy  Angel  say, 
"Ay,  ay,"  to  every  thing;  and  he  waxed  eloquent  on  the 
luxury  of  having  only  one  post  a  day,  and  that  one  uncer- 
tain. But  his  highest  flights  of  approbation  were  given  to 
the  home-brewed  ale.  That  pure,  refreshing  beverage, 
sound  and  strong  as  a  heart  of  oak  should  be,  which 
quenched  the  thirst  with  a  certain  stringency  which  might 
hint  at  sourness  to  the  vulgar  palate,  had — so  he  said — de- 
stroyed for  ever  his  contentment  with  any  other  malt  liquor. 
He  spoke  of  Bass  and  Allsopp  as  "  palatable  tonics  "  and 
"  non-poisonous  medicinal  compounds."  And  when,  with  a 
flourish  of  hyperbole,  he  told  Master  Chuter's  guests  that 
nothing  to  eat  or  drink  was  to  be  got  in  London,  they  took 
his  word  for  it;  and  it  was  without  suspicion  of  satire  that 
Daddy  Angel  said,  "  The  gen'leman  do  look  pretty  middlin" 
hearty  too — con-sid'rin'," 


210  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

It  was  evident  that  the  painter  had  no  intention  of  going 
away  till  the  pot  boiler  fund  was  exhausted,  and  Jan  was 
willing  enough  to  abide,  especially  as  Master  Lake  had 
caught  cold  at  the  schoolmaster's  funeral,  and  was  grateful 
for  his  foster-son's  company  and  care.  Jan  was  busy  in 
many  ways.  He  was  Master  Swift's  heir  ;  but  the  old  man's 
illness  had  nearly  swallowed  up  his  savings,  and  Jan's  legacy 
consisted  of  the  books,  the  furniture,  the  gardening  tools,  and 
Rufus,  who  attached  himself  to  his  new  master  with  a  wist- 
ful affection  which  seemed  to  say  "  You  belong  to  the  good 
old  times,  and  I  know  you  loved  him." 

Jan  moved  the  schoolmaster's  few  chattels  to  the  wind- 
mill, and  packed  the  books  to  take  to  London.  With  them 
he  packed  the  little  old  etching  that  had  been  bought  from 
the  Cheap  Jack.  "  It's  a  very  good  one,"  said  the  painter. 
"  It's  by  an  old  Dutch  artist.  You  can  see  a  copy  in  the 
British  Museum."  But  it  was  not  in  the  Museum  that  Jan 
first  saw  a  duplicate  of  his  old  favorite. 

He  was  nailing  up  this  box  one  afternoon,  and  humming 
as  he  did  so, — 

"  But  I  alone  am  left  to  pine, 
And  sit  beneath  the  withy  tree, 
For  truth  and  honesty  be  gone  "— 

when  the  painter  came  in  behind  him. 

"  Stop  that  doleful  strain,  Giotto,  I  beg ;  you've  been 
painfully  sentimental  the  last  day  or  two." 

"  It's  an  old  song  they  sing  about  here,  sir,"  said  Jan. 

"  Never  mind  the  song,  you've  been  doleful  yourself, 
Giotto !  I  believe  you're  dissatisfied  that  we  do  not  push 
the  search  for  your  father.  Is  it  money  you  want,  child? 
Believe  me,  riches  enough  lie  between  your  fingers  and  your 
miller's  thumb.  Or  do  you  want  a  more  fashionable  pro- 
tector than  the  old  artist  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  sir !  "  cried  Jan.  "  I  never  want  to  leave  you  j 
and  it's  not  money  I  want,  but " — 

"  Well,  my  boy  ?     Don't  be  afraid." 

"  It's  my  mother,  sir,"  said  Jan,  with  flushed  cheeks. 
"  My  real  mother,  I  mean.  She  didn't  desert  me,  sir  ;  she 
died — when  I  was  born.  I  doubt  nobody  sees  to  her  grave, 
sir.     Perhaps  there's  nobody  but  me  who  would.     I  can't  do 


yAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL  Hi 

any   thing   for  her  now,  sir,  I  know ;  but  it  seems  as  if  I 
hardly  did  my  duty  in  not  knowing  where  she  lies." 

The  painter's  hands  were  already  deep  in  his  loose 
pockets,  from  which,  jumbled  up  with  chalk,  india-rubber, 
bits  of  wash-leather,  cakes  of  color,  reed  pens,  a  penknife, 
and  some  drawing-pins,  he  brought  the  balance  of  his  loose 
cash,  and  became  absorbed  in  calculations.  "  Is  that  box 
ready?"  he  asked.  "  We  start  to-morrow,  mind.  You  are 
right,  and  I  was  wrong ;  but  my  wish  was  to  spare  you  pos- 
sible pain.  I  now  think  it  is  your  duty  to  risk  the  possible 
pain.  If  those  rascally  creatures  who  stole  you  are  in  Lon- 
don, the  police  will  find  them.  Be  content,  Giotto ;  you 
shall  stand  by  your  mother's  grave !  " 


CHAPTER  XL. 

D'ARCY       SEES      BOGY THE     ACADEMY THE     PAINTER'S 

PICTURE. 

The  Ammabys  were  in  London.  Amabel  preferred  the 
country  ;  but  she  bore  the  town  as  she  bore  with  many  other 
things  that  were  not  quite  to  her  taste,  including  painfully 
short  petticoats,  and  Mademoiselle,  the  French  governess. 
She  was  in  the  garden  of  the  square  one  morning,  when 
D'Arcy  ran  in. 

"O  Amabel!"  he  cried,  "I'm  so  glad  you're  alone! 
Whom  do  you  think  I've  seen  ?  The  boy  you  called  Bogy. 
It  must  be  he ;  I've  looked  in  the  glass,  and  oh,  he  is  like 
me ! " 

"  Where  did  you  see  him?  "  asked  Amabel. 

"  Well,  you  know  I've  told  you  I  get  up  very  early  just 
now  ?  " 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  tell  me,"  interrupted  Amabel, 
"  when  you  know  Mademoiselle  won't  let  me  get  up  till 
half-past  eight.     Oh,  I  wish  we  were  going  home  this  week  !  " 

"  I'm  very  sorry,  Amabel,  but  do  listen.  I  was  down  by 
the  river,  and  there  he  was  sketching ;  and  oh,  so  beautifully  ! 
I  shall  burn  all  my  copies;  I  can  never  draw  like  him. 
Amabel,  he  is  awfully  like  me,  and  just  my  age.     He's  like 


4i2  J  AN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

what  people's  twin-brothers  are,  you  know.  I  wish  he  were 
my  twin-brother !  " 

"  He  couldn't  be  your  twin-brother,"  said  Amabel, 
gravely  ;  "  he's  not  a  gentleman." 

"  Well,  he's  not  exactly  not  a  gentleman,"  said  D'Arcy. 
"  HoAvever,  I  asked  him  if  he  sent  his  pictures  to  the  Acad- 
emy, and  he  said  no,  but  his  master  does,  the  artist  he  lives 
with.  And  lie  told  me  his  master's  name,  and  the  number 
of  his  pictures  ;  and  I've  brought  you  a  catalogue,  and  the 
numbers  are  401,  402,  and  403.  And  we  are  going  to  the 
Academy  this  afternoon,  and  I've  asked  mamma  to  ask  Lady 
Louisa  to  let  you  come  with  us.  But  don't  say  any  thing 
about  me  and  the  boy,  for  I  don't  want  it  to  be  known  I 
have  been  out  early." 

At  this  moment  Mademoiselle,  who  had  been  looking  into 
the  garden  from  an  upper  window,  hastened  to  fetch  Amabel 
indoors. 

It  was  between  three  and  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon, 
and  the  Academy  wras  crowded.  The  crush  was  so  oppres- 
sive that  Lady  Adelaide  wanted  to  go  away,  but  D'Arcy 
had  expressed  a  wish  to  see  No.  401,  and  D'Arcy 's  wishes 
were  law  to  his  father,  so  he  struggled  in  search  of  the  pic- 
ture, and  the  others  followed  him.  And  when  a  small  crowd 
that  was  round  it  had  dispersed,  they  saw  it  quite  clearly. 

It  was  the  painter's  picture.  As  the  other  spectators 
passed,  they  spoke  of  the  coloring  and  the  draughtsmanship  ; 
of  the  mellow  glow  of  sunshine,  which,  faithful  to  the  richness 
of  southern  summers,  carried  also  a  poetical  hint  of  the  air 
of  glory  in  which  genius  lives  alone.  To  some  the  graceful 
figure  of  Cimabue  was  familiar,  but  the  new  group  round 
the  picture  sawr  only  the  shepherd  lad.  And  if,  as  the  spec- 
tators said,  his  eyes  haunted  them  about  the  room,  what 
ghosts  must  they  not  have  summoned  to  haunt  Mr.  Ford's 
client  as  he  gazed  ? 

"Mais  c'est  Monsieur  D'Arcy!"  screamed  the  French 
governess.  And  Amabel  said,  "  It's  Bogy  ;  but  he's  got  no 
leaves."  Lady  Adelaide  was  quite  composed.  The  likeness 
was  very  striking,  but  her  maternal  eyes  saw  a  thousand 
points  of  difference  between  the  Giotto  of  the  painting  and 
her  son.  "  How  very  odd  !  "  she  said.  "  I  wonder  who  sat 
for  the  Giotto  ?     If  he  really  were  the  boy  Amabel  thinks 


JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL.  213 

she  saw  in  the  wood,  I  think  her  Bogy  and  the  model  must 
both  be  the  same  as  a  wonderful  child  Mr.  Ammaby  was 
telling  me  about,  who  painted  the  sign  of  the  inn  in  his  vil- 
lage ;  but  his  father  was  a  windmiller  called  Lake,  and  " — 
"Mamma!  mamma!"  cried  D'Arcy,  "papa  is  ill." 
The  sound  of  his  son's  voice  recalled  Mr.  Ford's  client  to 
consciousness ;  but  it  was  a  very  partial  and  confused  con- 
sciousness. He  heard  voices  speaking  of  the  heat,  the  crush, 
&c,  as  in  a  dream.  He  was  not  sure  whether  he  was  being 
carried  or  led  along.  The  painting  was  no  longer  before 
him,  but  it  mattered  little.  The  shepherd  boy's  eyes  were 
as  dark  as  his  own  ;  but  that  look  in  their  upward  gaze, 
which  stirred  every  heart,  pierced  his  as  it  had  moved  it 
years  ago  from  eyes  the  color  of  a  summer  sky.  To  others 
their  pathos  spoke  of  yearning  genius  at  war  with  fortune  ; 
but  for  Mr.  Ford's  client  they  brought  back,  out  of  the  past, 
words  which  rang  more  clearly  in  his  ears  than  the  condo- 
lences of  the  crowd, — 

"  You'll  remember  your  promise,  D'Arcy  ?  You  will  be 
quite  sure  to  take  me  home  to  bury  me  ?  And  you  will  call 
my  child  after  my  father, — JAN  ?  " 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

THE     DETECTIVE THE      "  JOOK." — JAN     STANDS     BY    HIS 

MOTHER'S  GRAVE HIS  AFTER  HISTORY. 

As  he  had  resolved,  the  painter  secured  the  help  of  the 
police  in  tracing  Jan's  pedigree.  He  did  not  take  the  bow- 
legged  boy  into  his  confidence,  but  that  young  gentleman 
recognized  the  detective  officer  when  he  opened  the  door  for 
him ;  and  he  laid  his  finger  by  his  snub  nose,  with  a  wink  of 
intense  satisfaction. 

On  hearing  the  story,  the  detective  expressed  his  opinion 
(founded  on  acquaintance  with  Sal)  that  George's  pocket 
had  been  picked  by  his  companions,  and  not  by  chance 
thieves  in  the  fair ;  and  he  finally  proved  his  sagacity  in  the 
guess  by  bringing  the  pocket-book  and  the  letter  to  the  artist. 

With  his  mother's  letter  (it  had  been  written  at  Moerdyk, 


214  7AN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

on  her  way  to  England)  before  them,  Jan  and  the  artist  were 
sitting,  when  Mr.  Ford's  client  was  announced,  and  Jan 
stood  face  to  face  with  his  father. 

The  gentle  reader  will  willingly  leave  a  veil  over  that 
meeting,  which  the  artist  felt  a  generous  shame  to  witness. 
With  less  delicacy,  the  bow-legged  boy  had  lingered  outside 
the  door,  but  when  the  studio  rang  with  a  passionate  cry, — 
"  My  son  !  my  son  !  " — he  threw  his  green  baize  apron  over 
his  head,  and  crying,  "  The  jook ! "  plunged  downwards  into 
the  basement,  and  shed  tears  of  sympathy  amongst  the  boots 
and  bottles. 

To  say  that  Lady  Adelaide  forgave  the  past,  and  received 
her  husband's  son  with  kindness,  is  to  do  scant  justice  to  the 
generous  affection  which  he  received  from  her.  'With  pity 
for  her  husband  mingled  painful  astonishment  that  he  should 
have  trusted  her  so  little ;  but  if  the  blow  could  never  be 
quite  repaired,  love  rarely  meets  with  its  exact  equivalent  in 
faith  or  tenderness,  and  she  did  not  suffer  alone.  She  went 
with  Jan  and  his  father  to  visit  Master  Lake,  and  her  gra- 
cious thanks  to  the  windmiller  for  his  care  of  her  step-son 
gave  additional  bitterness  to  her  husband's  memories  of  the 
windmill. 

It  was  she  who  first  urged  that  they  should  go  to  Holland. 
Jan's  grandfather  was  dead, — Mr.  Ford's  client  could  make 
no  reparation  there, — but  the  cousin  to  whom  the  old  wooden 
house  now  belonged  gave  Jan  many  things  which  had  been 
his  mother's.  Amongst  these  was  a  book  of  sketches  by  her- 
self, and  a  collection  of  etchings  by  her  great-grandfather,  a 
Dutch  artist;  and  in  this  collection  Jan  found  the  favorite 
of  his  childhood.  Did  the  genius  in  him  really  take  its  rise 
in  the  old  artist  who  etched  those  willows  which  he  had  once 
struggled  to  rival  with  slate-pencil  ? 

His  mother's  sketches  were  far  inferior  to  his  own ;  but 
with  the  loving  and  faithful  study  of  nature  which  they 
showed,  perhaps,  too,  with  the  fact  that  they  were  chiefly 
gathered  from  homely  and  homelike  scenes,  from  level  hori- 
zons and  gray  skies,  Jan  felt  a  sympathy  which  stirred  him 
to  the  heart.  His  delight  in  them  touched  Lady  Adelaide 
even  more  than  it  moved  his  father.  But  then  no  personal 
inconvenience  in  the  past,  no  long  habits  of  suffering  and 
selfishness,  blunted  her  sense  of  the  grievous  wrong  that  had 


jan  of  the  Windmill.  215 

been  done  to  her  husband's  gifted  son.  Nor  to  him  alone ! 
It  was  with  her  husband's  dead  wife  that  Lady  Adelaide's 
sympathies  were  keenest, — the  mother,  like  herself,  of  an 
only  child. 

Mr.  Ford's  client  went  almost  unwillingly  to  his  wife's 
grave,  by  the  side  of  which  her  old  father's  bones  now  rested. 
But  Jan  and  Lady  Adelaide  hastened  thither,  hand  in  hand, 
and  the  painter's  pledge  was  redeemed.  Since  the  old  man 
died,  it  had  been  little  tended,  and  weeds  grew  rank  where 
flowers  had  once  been  planted.  Jan  threw  himself  on  the 
neglected  grave.  "  My  poor  mother ! "  he  cried,  almost 
bitterly.  For  a  moment  the  full  sense  of  their  common 
wrong  seemed  to  overwhelm  him,  and  he  shrank  even  from 
Lady  Adelaide.  But  when,  kneeling  beside  him,  she  bent 
her  face  as  if  the  wind  that  sighed  among  the  grass  stalks 
could  carry  her  words  to  ears  long  dulled  in  death, — "  My 
poor  child  !  1  will  be  a  mother  to  your  son  !" — Jan's  heart 
turned  back  with  a  gush  of  gratitude  to  his  good  step- 
mother. 

He  had  much  reason  to  be  grateful :  then,  and  through 
many  succeeding  years,  when  her  training  fitted  him  to 
take  his  place  without  awkwardness  in  society,  and  her 
tender  care  atoned  (so  she  hoped)  for  the  hardships  of  the 
past. 

The  brotherly  love  between  Jan  and  D'Arcy  was  a 
source  of  great  comfort  to  her.  Once  only  was  it  threat- 
ened with  estrangement.  It  wras  when  they  had  grown  up 
into  young  men,  and  each  believed  that  he  was  in  love  with 
Amabel.  Jan  had  just  prepared  to  sacrifice  himself  (and 
Amabel)  with  enthusiasm  to  his  brother,  when  D'Arcy 
luckily  discovered  that  he  and  the  playmate  of  his  childhood 
were  not  really  suited  to  each  other.  It  was  the  case. 
The  conventionalities  of  English  society  in  his  owti  rank 
were  part  of  D'Arcy's  very  life,  but  to  Amabel  they  had 
been  made  so  distasteful  in  the  hands  of  Lady  Craikshaw 
that  her  energetic,  straightforward  spirit  was  in  continual 
revolt ;  and  it  was  not  the  least  of  Jan's  merits  in  her  eyes 
that  his  life  had  been  what  it  was,  that  he  was  so  different 
from  the  rest  of  the  people  amongst  whom  she  lived,  and 
that  the  interests  and  pleasures  which  they  had  in  common 


216  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

were  such  as  the  world  of  fashion  could  neither  give  nor 
take  away. 

Withheld  from  sacrificing  his  affections  to  his  brother, 
Jan  joined  with  his  father  to  cut  off  the  entail  of  his  prop- 
erty. "D'Arcy  is  your  heir,  sir,"  he  said.  "I  hope  to 
live  well  hy  my  art,  and  God  forbid  that  I  should  disinherit 
Lady  Adelaide  s  son." 

His  great  gift  did  indeed  bring  fortune  as  well  as  fame  to 
our  liero. 

The  Boys'  Home  knows  this.  It  has  some  generous 
patrons  (it  should  have  many !),  and  first  amongst  them 
must  rank  the  great  painter  who  sometimes  presides  at  its 
annual  festival,  and  is  wont  on  such  occasions  pleasantly  to 
speak  of  himself  as  "  an  old  boy." 

More  accurately  entitled  to  that  character  is  the  bow- 
legged  man-servant  of  another  artist, — Jan's  old  master. 
These  two  live  on  together,  and  each  would  find  it  diffi- 
cult to  say  whether  pride  and  pleasure  in  the  good  luck  of 
their  old  companion,  or  the  never  healed  pain  of  his  loss, 
is  the  stronger  feeling  in  their  kindly  hearts. 

Amabel  was  lier  father's  heir,  and  in  process  of  time  Jan 
became  the  Squire,  and  went  back  to  spend  his  life  under 
the  skies  which  inspired  his  childhood.  But  his  wife  is  wont 
to  say  that  she  believes  his  true  vocation  was  to  be  a  miller, 
so  strong  is  the  love  of  windmills  in  him,  and  so  proud  is  he 
of  his  Miller's  Thumb. 

At  one  time  Mr.  Ammaby  wished  him  to  take  his  name 
and  arms,  but  Jan  decided  to  keep  his  own.  And  it  is  by 
this  name  that  Fame  writes  him  in  her  roll  of  painters,  and 
not  by  that  of  the  old  Squires  of  Ammaby,  nor  by  the  name 
he  bore  when  he  was  a  Child  of  the  Windmill. 

CHAPTEE  XLIL 

CONCLUSION. 

A  south-west  wind  is  blowing  over  the  plains.  It 
drives  the  "messengers"  over  the  sky,  and  the  sails  of  the 
windmill,  and  makes  the  dead  leaves  dance  upon  the  graves. 
It  does  much  to  dispel  the  evil  effects  of  the  foul  smells  and 
noxious  gases,  which  are  commoner  yet  in  the  little  village 


JAJST OF  TffWWTNDMILL,  217 

than  one  might  suppose.  (But  it  is  a  long  time,  you  see, 
since  the  fever  was  here.)  Jt  shows  the  silver  lining  of  the 
willow  leaves  by  the  little  river,  and  bends  the  flowers 
which  grow  in  one  glowing  mass — like  some  gorgeous  East- 
ern carpet — on  Master  Swift's  grave.  It  rocks  Jan's  sign 
in  mid-air  above  the  Heart  of  Oak,  where  Master  Chuter  is 
waiting  upon  a  newly  arrived  guest. 

It  is  the  man  of  business.  Long  has  he  promised  to  tiy 
the  breezes  of  the  plains  for  what  he  calls  dyspepsia,  and 
the  artist  calls  "money-grubbing-on-the-brain,"  but  he  never 
could  find  leisure,  until  a  serious  attack  obliged  him  to 
do  so.  But  at  that  moment  the  painter  could  not  leave 
London,  and  he  is  here  alone.  He  has  not  said  that  he 
knows  Jan,  for  it  amuses  him  to  hear  the  little  innkeeper 
ramble  on  with  anecdotes  of  the  great  painter's  childhood. 

"  This  ale  is  fine,"  says  the  man  of  business.  "  I  never 
can  touch  beer  at  home.  The  painter  is  married,  you 
say  ?  " 

"He've  been  married  these  two  year,"  Master  Chuter 
replies.  "And  they  do  say  Miss  Amabel  have  been  partial 
to  him  from  a  child.  He  come  down  here,  sir,  soon  after 
his  father  took  to  him,  and  he  draad  out  Miss  Amabel's  old 
white  horse  for  her ;  and  the  butler  have  told  me,  sir,  that 
it  hangs  in  the  library  now.  It  be  more  fit  for  an  inn  sign, 
sartinly,  it  be,'  but  the  gentry  has  their  whims,  sir,  and  Miss 
Amabel  was  a  fine  young  lady.  The  Squire's  moral  image 
she  be ;  affable  and  free,  quite  different  to  her  ladyship. 
Coffee,  sir?  No,  sir?  Dined,  sir?  It  be  a  fine  evening, 
sir,  if  you'd  like  to  see  the  church.  I'd  be  glad  to  show  it 
you,  myself,  sir.     Old  Solomon  have  got  the  key." 

In  the  main  street  of  the  village  even  the  man  of  business 
strolls.  There  is  no  hurrying  in  this  atmosphere.  It  is  a 
matter  of  time  to  find  Old  Solomon,  and  of  more  time  to 
make  him  hear  when  he  is  found,  and  of  most  time  for  him 
to  find  the  key  when  he  hears.  But  time  is  not  money  to 
the  merchant  just  now,  and  he  watches  the  western  sky 
patiently,  and  is  made  sleepy  by  the  breeze.  When  at  last 
they  saunter  under  the  shadow  of  the  gray  church  tower,  his 
eye  is  caught  by  the  mass  of  color,  out  of  which  springs  a 
high  cross  of  white  marble,  whose  top  is  just  flushed  by  the 
setting  sun.     It  is  of  fine   design   and  workmanship,  and 


2i 8  JAN  OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

marks  the  grave  where  the  great  man's  schoolmaster  sleeps 
near  his  wife  and  child.  Hard  by,  Master  Chuter  shows  the 
"  fever  monument,"  and  the  names  of  Master  Lake's  children. 
And  then,  as  Daddy  Solomon  has  fumbled  the  door  open, 
they  pass  into  the  church.  The  east  end  has  been  restored, 
the  innkeeper  says,  by  the  Squire,  under  the  advice  of  his 
son-in-law. 

And  then  they  turn  to  look  at  the  west  window, — the 
new  window,  the  boast  of  the  parish, — at  which  even  old 
Solomon  strains  his  withered  eyes  with  a  sense  of  pride. 
The  man  of  business  stands  where  Jan  used  to  sit.  The  un- 
changed faces  look  down  on  him  from  the  old  window.  But 
it  is  not  the  old  window  that  he  looks  at,  it  is  the  new  one. 
The  glory  of  the  setting  sun  illumines  it,  and  throws  crim- 
son lights  from  the  vesture  of  the  principal  figure — like  stains 
of  blood — upon  the  pavement. 

"It  be  the  Good  Shepherd,"  Master  Chuter  explains  ;  but 
his  guest  is  silent.  The  pale-faced,  white-haired  angels  in 
the  upper  lights  seem  all  ablaze,  and  Old  Solomon  cannot 
look  at  them. 

"Them  sheep  be  beautiful,"  whispers  the  innkeeper; 
but  the  stranger  heeds  him  not.  He  is  reading  the  inscrip- 
tion : — 


To  the  Glory  of  GOD, 

And  the  pious   memory   of  Abel,   my   dear  foster-brother: 

I,  who  designed  this  window 

Dedicate  it. 

HE  shall  gather  the  lambs  into  HIS  arms. 


THE     END. 


i  i     i    I  iflUHIU 


in 


